


The Queen of Pretend

by babydraco



Series: Hot Blood, Hot Thoughts and Hot Deeds:  Reign AU Fics [3]
Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Tension, Crack Relationships, Cunnilingus, Domestic Violence, Dry Humping, F/M, Family Drama, Female!Bash, Female!Francis, Female!James, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Virginity, Male Mary, Male!Lola, Misogyny, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Murder, Outdoor Sex, Period-Typical Sexism, Prequel, Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Rule 63, Slut Shaming, Unrequited Love, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babydraco/pseuds/babydraco
Summary: The  prequel to my Reign cisswap/Rule  63   AU.As  a  bastard daughter of a  dead king,  sold into a nightmare of a marriage,  and negotiating a love/hate relationship with her stepmother,  Lady Isobel Stewart  feels  unloved, unwanted and trapped.   When she meets  a man who promises he can show her  a way out,  Isobel is caught up in the religious revolution sweeping 1550s  Scotland.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need read the other fic to understand this one. You only have to know that most of the characters of Mary's generation,with the exception of two, have been genderswapped (but not their parents, I had to cut this off somewhere). Although I'm exploring many possibilities re what ripples this would make in history (which makes a convenient excuse for issues of accuracy/timeline mistakes too), the series concentrates heavily on what would happen if Mary's brother James was our female protagonist. A sister, denied her own dreams, trying to hold a country together for a king who has been absent for years and might never come back. And the only person really helping her is the last person she should be trusting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So I guess the fortune teller's right_  
>  Should have seen just what was there  
> And not some holy light  
> It crawled beneath my veins  
> And now I don't care, I had no luck  
> I don't miss it all that much  
> Natalie Imbruglia, "Torn"

_3rd October, Year of Our Lord 1546_

_Dear Malcolm,_

How are you finding French Court? Are the king and queen nice? Is your princess very pretty? I have so many Questions 

I made scarves for both of you (enclosed). I've only just begun to learn to knit, I'm afraid they're not good work. But they'll keep you warm. 

Scotland has finally begun to settle again, at least we hope. There's much work to be done still before its safe for you to come home. Your Mother is doing a wonderfull job taking care of your kingdom. I'm serving as one of her Ladies,and she is teaching me so much and has introduced me to Dukes and princes. I've already attended my first grownup balls- I had a fine pink silk dress with perls(not a detale you care about, I know). I've drewn a picture for you. You don't know how wonderfull it is to stay up aull night dancing, and recieve your first kiss, you will feel untoucheble when it happens to you. 

I would be ever so greatful if you would write me back,

Love and Kisses alwayes

Your Sister Isobel

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1549_

Mary of Guise, the Queen Regent, was deliberately ignoring Reverend John Knox and the Protestant lords. Their delegation had been standing in the throne room among the crowd of petitioners all morning. The others were bored and irritable, and that led their conversation wandering around to the topic of women.

“Who is _that_?” Lord Ruthven asked under his breath. “And how old is she?”

“The work of art sitting near the Queen? She must be seventeen? Eighteen?”

“So, a woman. Old enough,” Ruthven said.

Knox listened to the men discussing the girl, and when he looked up and saw her, he had to agree. She sat in a plain chair below and to the left of the throne, absently picking at an embroidery project. She was objectively lovely, with fair, clear skin, large, heavy lidded brown eyes, an aquiline nose, her raven hair pinned up in imitation of the Queen Regent's favorite style. Her dress alluded to well formed curves underneath. Which was not something he should be noticing, even if it was merely an observation of fact and he didn't have any urge to drool like the others. Lust was at best, a trap, a distraction from God's true purpose for each soul, just looking could cause a man to stray into darkness. 

“She's Lady Isobel Stewart, Lady Erskine's eldest with the king, and Queen Mary's stepdaughter,” Lord Fraser interjected.

The almost-princess, daughter of the almost- queen Margaret Erskine, the adulteress who tried to leave her husband for James V. Their attempt was struck down by the Vatican, leaving mother and daughter mired in a legal and social No Man's Land. Against all rationality, Lady Margaret had continued to produce children for the king, none of whom were legitimate. A woman of obviously low intelligence and poor impulse control and a man who had never heard the word “no” had got themselves into a situation their church refused to help them rectify. The Scottish people's taxes had funded this fiasco, to boot. 

“Then I doubt she's a virgin.”

“You think so?” Ruthven asked.

“Well, those perky apples probably didn't fall far from the tree, 's all I'm saying," said Fraser. "And I heard she's an idiot obsessed with dresses and parties, let's hope she's not our next Regent.”

“Any wagers on which one of us can tame her first?” Ruthven laughed.

With no father, and such a wanton mother, to say nothing of _The French queen_ , perhaps there had been no one to safeguard her virtue. No one to restrain her behavior and protect her from being preyed upon by the sort of man standing behind him. Poor, pitiable child, casting nervous glances in their direction. 

“I think she heard you,” Knox murmured. He enjoyed the sound of grown men shuffling and mumbling apologies like naughty schoolboys caught by the teacher. The girl shot him a grateful smile. Empty headed or not, there was no reason to scare off someone who might be useful in the near future. Perhaps dim and shallow yet agreeable was better, people, especially women, who were smart enough to know they weren't smart, were so much easier to work with. Whether she became Regent or not, she was as close to the crown as you could get, politically, emotionally, literally. And she was young, there was time to divert her path, time to teach her better, and in the process, gain a powerful ally who might already resent the Catholic Church. Getting a member of the royal family who actually had influence, on their side, was vital to the next step in their plans for Scotland.

Queen Mary whispered something to her. The girl stood, and spoke in a loud, clear voice which only trembled a bit. 

“Thank you, everyone. The Regent will hear no more petitions today.” 

The queen smiled with gentle maternal approval. John Knox felt a headache coming on. But he needed a royal audience. He let his friends wander down to the village, and trailed after the girl at a discreet distance until the crowds thinned out. 

“Lady Stewart?” 

She turned, eyebrow lifted in a polite 'sorry, do I know you?' expression. 

“Reverend John Knox. Let me apologize for my friends. Their comments were cruel and men of their age and position should know better.”

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate hearing that. They made me wish it was still fashionable to go about veiled,” Lady Isobel said. Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I am glad to see they have an adult with them when they leave the house. Was there anything else you needed?”

“I do urgently need to speak privately with the queen,” he said, adopting a sheepish demeanor, the humble priest only begging for a moment of her time. Her smile was warm, instantly accommodating.

“ I'll bypass her secretary for you. Come back in one day and you will have your meeting. Excuse me.” Lady Isobel strode off after a tall young man with dark hair. “James Hepburn, you silly boy, don't think I didn't see you just now.”She glanced back at Knox, giggling as if they all shared the same joke and he found himself smiling involuntarily. She wasn't supposed to be _friendly and charming_.

James Hepburn had a bottle of red wine, which he and Isobel shared while they lay curled up together in a forest clearing. He kept kissing her neck, and she would make half hearted efforts to push him away even as her lower belly tingled at being so close to him.

“Nooo, I'm not supposed to play with you, you're a _naughty boy_ ,” Isobel snickered. His hips pressed against her bottom, he was hard and she knew what he wanted. They couldn't do that, but she often let him find relief by rubbing off on the back of her thighs, which he was casually doing at that moment, his face buried in her hair. 

“Why can't I marry you when I'm the Earl of Bothwell?” He groaned. His hips stuttered, she felt sticky wetness on her skin. 

“It'll be too late," Isobel sighed. She rested her cheek on a patch of soft, cool moss. Her family, her mothers, wanted her settled down soon. Her marriage prospects would dwindle with every year, even though Father had set aside a dowry for her, Mother had been forced to borrow against it to keep them afloat. Even though she was attractive, accomplished and tried to be pleasant and biddable, those men at court weren't the only people who assumed she'd be an unfaithful and disobedient wife. The princes Queen Mary kept introducing her to showered Isobel with gifts and attention, they fought over who got to dance with her, but they always chose some other girl to marry. 

“Sometimes I wish you were a man,” he said. “We wouldn't have to think about this.”

“But then we could never marry at all,” Isobel argued. “And we'd go to Hell.”

“Nobody really goes to Hell for loving another person,” James said. “Not really.” 

“Oh? Because I heard they _do_ when they're sodomites. Anyway, have you done it?” Isobel asked. 

“I - yes. Last week with a village girl. I'm sorry. I couldn't wait.”

As long as that random village girl was unmarried and didn't get pregnant, everyone would probably politely ignore it, while Isobel always teetered on the edge of being ruined forever. It didn't matter how many concessions she made to help him relieve his urges, she couldn't fully satisfy him if she could only let him go so far. Maybe not even if he truly loved her. If he did, he'd ask his father about marrying her. She wasn't going to be stupid enough to give her virginity to a boy who wouldn't make any promises.

Isobel rolled underneath James, wanting more but not entirely sure what to ask for. He slowly pushed her dress up, looking down at her with that dark, hungry gaze, as if she was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen. It never failed to make her desperately damp. 

“I said no,” she repeated anxiously, even though there was nothing she wanted more than to say yes, yes, yes, take me hard, right here on the ground. 

“I know, I won't,” he reassured her. “Can I try something I else I heard of? Do you trust me?”

“Of course I don't,” Isobel panted. “But I want it anyway. Give it to me, whatever it is.”

He lowered his face between her legs and...and kissed her mound. Isobel laughed softly, it tickled a bit, and then it wasn't quite as funny as he explored her slit with his tongue. She began to whimper as he brushed over the same spots over and over, first slowly and then faster until the pleasure turned into sweet agony. 

“Oh.” Oh, ohh, _ohhh_. And she was seeing stars, losing control of her entire body, spilling on his tongue, crying out his name loud enough to disturb a flock of sparrows in the trees above. This was what her mothers didn't want her knowing about, this was holier than anything in church, and the forest was their cathedral.

After, Isobel hurried to her room in time to see James passing through the garden below. She blew a kiss at him, he responded with a gallant bow. Oh, she might be falling for him even more than ever before. 

“Don't lean so far out the window if you're going to wear such a low neckline,” Queen Mary chided, after knocking but entering the room before Isobel responded. “Or you'll fall out of your dress and then what?” 

“Maybe I should just become a nun,” Isobel grumbled. “Would that make everyone happy?”

“You'd make a terrible nun,” Queen Mary said. “Come, sit, I have news.” 

Isobel joined the queen on the bench by the dormant fireplace, hands folded expectantly in her lap.

“I received an offer for your hand today,” Queen Mary began. “After this morning's court business, I had a private meeting with the Earl of Moray. As you know, he was of so much help during the Rough Wooing and other...English offensives. But Isobel, everyone wants something. That's what diplomacy is, avoiding war by making sure everyone gets what they want, that's the way of the world.”

The unbridled joy of her afternoon with James Hepburn popped like a soap bubble.  
“And he wants me?” Isobel asked. “I'm his price?” All she knew about him was that he was a widower and about twenty years older than her. But she knew enough about court by now, to know how much the Stewarts depended on the goodwill of their nobles and as a queen ruling alone, her stepmother was especially vulnerable. She had hard choices to make. But did she have to use Isobel as a bargaining tool, as if she was not a person with her own dreams? 

“He's besotted with you.”

“But he doesn't even _know me_ ,” Isobel complained. 

“He knows enough,” Queen Mary said. “The scandal of your birth isn't an issue for him, nor is the less than ideal dowry. Apparently, he wants you that badly.”

“And there are still no other options,” Isobel said. “No one...better.” Not unless the Earl of Bothwell consented to her marrying his son, but she had no time left to wait for her lover to care enough about her to actually ask his father. 

“Before everything fell apart, your parents planned for you to marry one of the Tudor princes. Edmund, I think. But a bastard Catholic and a bastard Protestant don't make the most advantageous match. And the repeated attempts to invade us did nothing to change anyone's minds.”

“Even if it meant peace between our countries, if we'd married, I might have ended up locked in the Tower with him,” Isobel said. “He's almost sixteen, right? Do you think he could be handsome?”

“I don't know,” Queen Mary said. “He hasn't been seen in public in years, there were once rumors he had died. Think less about irrelevant English boys and more about the man you're going to marry. Do you have any other questions?”

“I want to seek my mother's counsel and support.”

“I'll summon her to court.” 

So there went Isobel's last realistic attempt to divert the plan. The queen was right to be suspicious. Half of Isobel wanted to run, and would, if given the chance to leave town. She could run to her brother in France, to her other half siblings, or hide in a convent, but not if Queen Mary had her mother. And what sort of person would that make her, if she cut and ran instead of doing her duty for her country? Marriage, likely to someone she didn't yet love, had always been inevitable, and it would raise her status and mark her as a truly grown woman. She'd be mistress of her own household, having sex, initiated into all the secrets of being a wife and mother. Maybe this wasn't so bad. She had friends who were already married, she certainly didn't want to be left behind. 

“I'll be able to meet him first,won't I?” Isobel asked.

“At your engagement garden party tomorrow. So try to...do something better with your hair.” Queen Mary reached over and dismissively plucked a twig from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and to repeat, timelines are not my area of strength, so take my math with a grain of salt
> 
> Of course, if you watch the show, you can guess why Ruthven is so keen to make a point of loudly discussing the physical attributes of teenage girls. 
> 
> The James/Knox tag is mostly to be on the safe side, it's not as much of a thing yet in this one, they're both pretty much unaware that his inexplicable drive to be super nice to her is about more than her role as his most important political chess piece. 
> 
> I did try to finish the story I said I'd be posting next, but that just hasn't worked out. That's what I get for promising things.


	2. Chapter 2

Mother made it to Edinburgh in time for Isobel's engagement party, and brought Isobel's half sister Roberta to serve as a bridesmaid. Queen Mary vetoed Isobel's choice of her friend Lady Argyll, she was a Protestant and including her might have drawn complaints. Isobel's other choices were also vetoed by the queen. Isobel took for her remaining bridesmaids, young women of noble houses her stepmother wanted to curry favor with or put on display for the marriage market. They seemed nice, but she kept mixing up their names. 

It may have been her wedding, but it wasn't about her. If it was, she'd be getting married in spring or winter, at her childhood home of Lochleven, and...

“But I know that underneath, you are the chaste and pure, godly woman I seek.” 

“Hmm?” Isobel said vaguely. Queen Mary kicked her ankle under the table. “I'm flattered, My Lord. I attend church at least three times a week and often turn to my rosary.”

Her fiance, Thomas Buchanan, Earl of Moray, was tall and muscular, with sandy hair that was beginning to show a bit of gray in his beard. His doublet was fashionable, he smelled acceptable, and he had all his own good teeth. She could have done much worse, Isobel concluded glumly, poking at a strawberry on her plate until it fell apart. Queen Mary's face said it all, it said _you'd better start eating those more seductively or else_. So Isobel tried to get more into the spirit of the game, slowly placing them in her mouth and licking the juice daintily from her lips, but innocently, as if she didn't realize she was doing it. His eyes kept straying to her mouth. 

“Yes,” the Earl of Moray said, “I remember when I first saw you, you were fifteen, it was the New Year's Ball and you were wearing a pink silk dress and a hair band which had pearls. I don't normally pay attention to women's clothing but you were like an Italian sculpture come to plump, ripe life. And I knew you would one day be mine.”

“How romantic,” Mother said. A woman might recognize her tone as sarcasm, a certain type of man never would. Lord Moray was the type who didn't. 

“I knew, when I saw this angel, here was a woman who could mold herself to my needs, who would add a quiet elegance to my home. Supportive, unselfish, obedient and a Catholic virgin who I am sure is fertile. My wife will be pure and my rule will not be questioned. These are non negotiable for me. In other words, I must have them.” 

“Yes, of course, I understand. Excuse me,” Isobel said. She was able to breathe much easier when she got far away from the royal canopy and food tables. Isobel stopped to smile at children in white clothing who kicked a ball around the grass. They didn't have to think about any of this. She'd have her own little ones soon enough, she could focus on that instead of whatever else lay in store. She had never thought beyond securing a marriage, what she'd do with herself other than produce heirs.

Isobel wandered into the cool darkness of the stables, pausing to press her face against her favorite horse's neck. She perked up her ears at the sound of rustling and sighing coming from the direction of the hay bales. Someone was getting amorous. And why not, the stables were an excellent choice as long as you weren't too loud and scared the horses. But as she attempted to pass by without disturbing the couple, she recognized the moans. 

“ _James_?”

James Hepburn and the boy around their own age whose trousers he had his hand down, broke apart, red faced.

“Isobel!”

“I know, it's not what it looks like, and you can explain.”

The other boy bolted out the door. 

“It is,and I can't. I have these desires. Terrible ones. I knew you would never want to be with me again if you found out that I'm...”

A homosexual? Or at least, a man who...it was confusing and rattled her view of the world, and of James. He had her, yet he still wanted _that_. It must be something he couldn't help. And if it was a sin, was it really worse than their own experimentation? 

“Is it-is it-” she asked timidly, “Is it because I wouldn't let you?”

“No! Oh God, no, Isobel. It's not your fault. It's no one's fault. I've always been like this.” James sighed, and leaned against a post. He rubbed his palm over his face and he made a mortified choking noise. 

“I am sorry I told you sodomites go to Hell,” Isobel offered. “I don't believe that. I don't know what I believe, I'm mostly faking it all the time.”

“I didn't know how to tell you,” he said. He wouldn't look at her, perhaps still too ashamed. 

“ So that's why you always wanted to rub off on me from behind. To imagine I was another boy?” Isobel kept her tone light, joking, trying to show him it didn't bother her. It did bother her. If only he had been honest, if only- if- 

“Iz, no one could ever confuse you for anything male, not even from the back. But I like girls too. Just...perhaps I like boys more. Or rather, men, as I almost am one now. I know I can't live my life according to that, there's no future down that road. In public, I must only want women.”

“Then why wouldn't you marry me?”

“What?” He blinked. 

“You were supposed to ask your father if you could marry me. And now I'm to be married to someone else in a week.”

“Why didn't _you_ ask _your_ parents? You have no father to give you away but your stepmother is the Queen Regent.”

“Because I needed to be sure of you.” Because she hadn't wanted to humiliate herself by asking her stepmother for something so big, and be made a fool of when the boy she wanted failed to hold up his end of the bargain. 

“Isobel, I don't want to get married to anyone. I'm too young. I want to have adventures and see the world.”

“I can't wait until I'm, I dunno, _thirty_ ,” Isobel snapped. “And I don't get to have adventures anyway, so it doesn't matter. If you don't marry me now, you can't marry me ever, don't you understand?”

“Who fucking made that rule?”

“My family? The people who run Scotland? You've heard of them?” She batted his hand away when he tried to touch her arm. “My only chance of avoiding this marriage to some forty year old man I don't know, was someone else asking me first. And you didn't.”

“Then, I'm sorry,” he said, tears welling up in his brown eyes. “I'm sorry, Isobel.”

“Isobel.” Roberta approached, coughing politely to alert them to her arrival. “You've been gone too long and I was sent to make sure you aren't ill.”

“Thank you, sister. I should return to my fiance.” Isobel refused to look back at the boy who had broken her heart. His apology was not good enough and everything they could have been to each other was destroyed in mere minutes. As she returned to the gathering, she heard her bridegroom's friends discussing her abrupt departure. 

“....disappearing from her own engagement party. Does my lord not entertain her enough?”

“....royal brat. She clearly thinks she's too good for you.”

“...first chance you have, take her over your knee. That will teach her.”

Isobel blanched at the raucous laughter which followed. Her future husband didn't indicate he agreed, yet he didn't stir himself to defend her either. She might not have minded the suggestion if it had been meant as play, and from someone she was enjoying her time with. She liked to think of herself as adventurous, among her own friends she would have laughed with them, followed it up with a double entendre that dared him to actually do it. But in this context, it was ugly and humiliating. 

“I'm sure I won't need to take such drastic measures, I think she'll respond to firm words,” was all Thomas said in reply.

“Bertie?” Isobel whispered. “Tell everyone I _have_ taken ill. From the heat, and I've gone back inside.”

“Of course.”

Isobel snatched a bottle of wine off a table in passing, and she drank it all by herself in the dark on the floor of her old bedroom. 

“Now, Izzie, have you been a good girl?” Mother asked. They'd gone out riding in the countryside, three armed guards following at a slight distance. Queen Mary was no fool, and Isobel had noticed a subtle increase in guards hovering near her as her wedding day approached. She was never alone now that she'd signed the marriage contract.

“Yes, Mother. Well, mostly.” She blushed, thinking wistfully about her former lover. “In the way which counts, I've been careful about that.”

“Do you have questions about the wedding night?”

“No. I-I know what to expect. I think. I've done a lot with boys. I don't know him well, and I don't know what he'll be like when we're alone, and I'm not even sure I like _him_ , but I'm excited, I'm tired of waiting. Mother, is it bad that I want it? Is it wicked of me?”

“Well,” Mother said slowly. “I'm supposed to say yes. But I've never lied to you, enjoying sex is only natural. We wouldn't have the ability to, if we weren't supposed to. Despite what everyone likes to pretend, women can and do enjoy it, even crave it, when we're well matched with a partner. And I'm guessing you've begun to figure that out when you're with a boy. "

"I climaxed, when my friend James used his mouth on me," Isobel murmured. She blushed furiously. "And I didn't feel guilty about it."

" And it confuses you, because what you feel doesn't match what you've been told to feel. That's normal. But you must not appear too eager at first. _Please_ , do not give this man any excuse to doubt your virtue.”

“Mother? I'm afraid of not pleasing him in other ways. Outside the bedroom.” 

“A man who loves his wife values her feelings and opinions. He gives her room to breathe and he rules his household fairly. But, I suspect this man will not be your ideal. I've seen him lurking on the fringes of court for years and I don't trust him. You'll have to grit your teeth and play pretend, and try not to test him.”

Back at court, the queen was waiting for them. 

“Isobel, please excuse us, your mother and I need to speak privately.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Of course she went no further than the hallway outside, and stood with her ear to the door. 

“I know the world wants to pretend I don't exist, and should have no voice,” Mother said. “I know it's your right as queen to take my child from me and sell her to the highest bidding stranger without consulting me. But when were you planning on _telling_ me? Didn't I at least have that right?”

“I did tell you.”

“One week before it happens. It's almost as if you wanted to ensure I had no time to stop it.”

“I did want to ensure you had no time to stop it,” Queen Mary said. 

“But why? If this is about revenge, my daughter is innocent of my crime, which was nothing more than loving her father. She's paid enough for the mistakes of her parents.”

“As if I'd put that much effort into hurting you when you long ago ceased to be a threat. This isn't personal, Margaret. Scotland has finally achieved some measure of peace, and in order to maintain that in my very delicate position, I have to placate the men who helped me. Isobel is a valuable reward.”

“But this isn't what I wanted for her, or what our James wanted.”

“I didn't either. I wanted her to serve as my lady so she could meet a prince. As long as it wasn't of Scotland, I fully endorsed Isobel's potential to make of herself a queen. But I no longer have time. Or anything left to offer the Earl other than a pretty and virginal young wife of noble birth.”

“She is- my daughter's body, her will and her freedom will be sacrificed for Scotland,” Mother said, she sounded as if she was about to cry. 

“ Why shouldn't it? It's what the rest of us have had to do. I've made sacrifices too,” Queen Mary argued. “I've already given away my own son to France. I haven't seen him in years, and he was so young he'll look like a stranger to me the next time I do.” 

“And when he's a grown man,” Mother replied, “he'll return as a king with an army at his back. Isobel will languish away married to a man who, at best, will never be good enough for her!”

“Whose fault is that? It's not mine that no prince wanted her, God knows I tried. And it isn't my fault her original betrothal fell through. Lady Margaret? If it seems as if you're treated as if you don't exist, perhaps you ought to take the hint.”

An uncomfortable silence. 

“Do you think she can survive this? I don't think he is...a good man.”

“She has to,” Queen Mary said. “She must learn how to look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent underneath. I fear Scotland will one day depend on it.”

Isobel was back in her own room and in her nightgown before Mother came to say goodnight. 

“How can you let her speak to you like that?” Isobel blurted out. 

“I should have known you would eavesdrop.” Mother smoothed her hands over the Flemish lace on the duvet. “She's our queen, she requires our respect.”

“But she's so mean to you.” Isobel sat up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“It's complicated,” Mother said. “I don't think we hate each other, but I've been lurking on the edges of her life as the woman who came in second place politically, but first in your father's heart. That's not easy. When you're older, you'll understand, it's hard for powerful women to have real friends. Especially if they love the same man, because for a woman who has or wants power, only a certain sort of man will do.”

“A king.” 

“ Yes, although I meant a man who wants you to rise to meet him instead of dragging you down. Who doesn't need you to be powerless in order to feel powerful himself. But if you reach for a crown and fail, the world will not forgive. So make sure to store up some leverage against those who want to see you fall.”

“But my husband _isn't_ a king,” Isobel protested. “And I have no leverage.”

“You need to make a plan in the event you should outlive him,” Mother said. “I want this marriage to be a ladder for you.” She retrieved a small ornate box from the velvet bag she wore on her belt, and showed Isobel the contents. Nestled on black wool inside the box was a pair of earrings, sparkling rubies fashioned into stylized roses. 

“Your father gave these to me when he asked me to marry him. He said they were his own mother's. I have a few more pieces I was saving for you.”

The wedding, which, according to the law, never happened. Her legitimacy snuffed out with a stroke of the Pope's pen. She remembered her parents and their happiness, their contagious excitement, and then a glimpse of her mother sobbing, and someone had told Isobel that she was not going to become a princess after all. In the eyes of the Church, she was a product of sin and shouldn't exist. Father had gone on to marry someone else, and then another woman after that, he had no choice. 

“Will Queen Mary be angry if I wear these? Would she take it as a challenge?” Isobel asked. 

“Don't let anyone stop you from holding on to what's left of your royal birthright,” Mother said. “Not even the queen. And they're to help you remember you were made out of love, to give you hope that someday, a man who truly loves you, the way you deserve, _will_ find you.”

“Thank you, Mother, they're so beautiful.” 

Everything on her wedding day went off wonderfully, it was the closest Isobel had ever felt to being a true princess. She had Roberta to hold the train of her voluminous yellow silk gown, and her mothers to stand by proudly. Malcolm sent a delicate silver tiara, with his heartfelt apologies for not being able to come in person. The Abbot of the monastery where he'd been removed to for his safety didn't think it would be wise. In deference to the heat, Father Hamilton kept the mass short. And when the new couple stepped outside, the sky was a brilliant blue dotted with fluffy clouds, and doves soared around the wedding guests.

After the wedding party had finally been shooed out of the bridal bedchamber, Isobel's new husband carefully stripped her of her thin, white silk shift and the lacy robe which covered it. He kissed her, but it was as if he thought she was made out of glass. They still hardly knew each other, after all, and he knew she had never done this before. Perhaps he assumed she was even more innocent than she really was. She trembled, more out of excitement at finally having permission to do this, than out of fear, she felt that telltale heat between her legs, but remembered her mother's advice about not coming off as too eager. Isobel lay back on the bed, and let his eyes take her in, completely exposed and vulnerable as she was. She had no idea what to do with her hands, so she let them rest on her stomach. He finished undressing while she watched, revealing a decently formed body that was not yet showing many signs of middle age. His wasn't the first hard cock she'd ever seen, she judged him to be average. He began to kiss her again, lowering himself over her. Isobel opened her thighs, tilting her hips up to signal her consent. He hitched her thigh around his waist, and slowly breached her. 

It wasn't painful, or frightening, not even when he began to move, but it wasn't anything close to the climax she'd had with her James. She'd barely had time to feel aroused before it was already over. Isobel was deeply disappointed. Maybe it would improve as they got to know each other? But Thomas was staring at her, growing angrier by the second. Was he displeased with her? Did he expect her to participate more? They had all night, they had the rest of their lives, she could learn how to give him what he wanted, and negotiate how to get more of what she needed too. 

When Isobel finally stared down between her legs, she understood. And in those few seconds she could never get back, the mood of the room, and her whole life, changed. 

The sheets were as white as ever. 

How was this possible? What had she done wrong? She began crying at the thunderous expression on his face. She feared he'd hit her, like his friends had laughingly encouraged him to do. What happened instead was just as bad. 

“ _Get. Dressed._ ” 

It should have been raining and thundering as he dragged her down the corridors by her arm, but it wasn't. She was barefoot in her nightgown when he threw her to the floor in front of her family, all hastily assembled in their dressing gowns, blinking blearily at her. 

“I've been tricked!”

“What is the meaning of this?” Queen Mary said at the same time. 

“The crown has dressed this _whore_ up like a virgin to defraud me.”

“ _Pardon_?” the queen said coldly. Mother gasped, she steadied herself against a table. 

“I have evidence!” Thomas brandished the clean sheets, and Isobel wanted the ground to open up and swallow her and her shame. “I wanted to believe the rumors weren't true, but I see now what a fool I was.”

“Isobel,” Mother said, “You promised me you were intact. Did you lie to me?”

“No! I swear, I didn't- I wouldn't lie about that,” Isobel wept. She wanted Mother to come and hug her, but nobody was moving, they just stared at her, betrayed and disgusted. 

“I _knew_ keeping your legs closed was a race against the clock,” Queen Mary snapped. “You stupid girl, you knew we were counting on you. _How could you let this happen?_ ” They all began to shout at her at once and all Isobel could do was plead that she was sorry, while simultaneously repeating that she had done nothing wrong. Surely, if she had already lost her virginity, she'd know, it wasn't the sort of thing you forgot. She had given up all of her other chances, all those other boys, for _nothing_. She was defective and she had ruined everything. 

Roberta was the first person to move, daring to give Isobel a shawl to preserve her modesty. Father Hamilton arrived about two hours later and asked to negotiate with her privately. And when she still refused to confess, her family came back in and resumed their own interrogation. The priest placed a quill and parchment in front of her. 

“A maid says she saw you going off into the woods with a boy several times,” he said. 

“Nothing happened, I didn't do anything,” Isobel insisted. She wondered how he'd managed to dig up a witness so quickly and in the middle of the night. 

“What possible reason would the maid have to lie?” Queen Mary asked. 

“I don't know!” Isobel dug her nails into her palms until the pain registered. It kept her from screaming.

“If you confess the name of the man involved, this can all be over,” Father Hamilton said. “Write a list of all the men you've been with other than your husband.”

“There have _been no other men_ ,” Isobel repeated. “I mean, I only-with-” Not the way they meant. She was so dizzy she had begun to lose track of her own arguments. 

“Darling, if a man forced you, or...took advantage in any way, it's not your fault. If you tell us, he will be punished. Just give us a name.” Her mother was offering Isobel another way out, the look in her eyes hinted that the man didn't even have to be guilty, she only needed to furnish them with a scapegoat. Claim she was tricked or raped, and she would be named innocent and free to go.

“There was no man.”

By midnight, faint from hunger, dehydrated from crying, she chose a name and wrote it down. She made up a fantasy of dubiously consensual romance, then signed her name to it in the presence of the witnesses.

“Very well,” Queen Mary said after reading the paper silently. “He will be apprehended and I will see that justice is served. But, Lord Moray, the crown will not compensate you for your loss. You wanted a reward, you asked for Lady Isobel, you now have her. I won't have her reputation destroyed with a divorce or annulment. Take her home and live with your mistake.”

The last thing Isobel saw as her husband's guards escorted her from the room, was her mother's heartbroken face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "Earl of Moray' is entirely fictional. 
> 
> I've also added a tag for implied/referenced rape. We won't see it, it'll barely come up, in keeping with my No Rape Plots (Unless It Really Happened) policy for this AU series. But an astute reader might guess that in her situation, dub con ensuing at some point during the marriage is a possibility. I'll let you decide how far you think that goes. 
> 
> I promise life gets better for her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __  
> "But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her"  
>  JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings 
> 
> “ _Be careful making wishes in the dark dark_  
>  Can't be sure when they'll hit their mark mark  
> And besides in the mean mean time  
> I'm just dreaming of tearing you apart  
> Fall Out Boy- “My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark”

_September, Year of Our Lord 1549_

__

_Dear Mother,_

_Are you well? I am very muc **h** enjoying our new **e** state. Thomas has bought me a **l** ovely horse, which I have named **P** enny and ride often. I wish that you might come to visit and you would forgive **me** for my shaming of our family._

_Love, Isobel_

 

_Dear Isobel,_

_I am sorry you are not happy. But you hafe mayde your bedde and now you must lye in it._

_Mother.  
_

To: Her Highness Queen Mary 

_Your Grace,_

_I'm enclosing a letter Isobel sent which grayvely concerns myself. You will see she has used a code to speak of her distresse. We may have done our daughter a great harm in conspyring to this mariage._

_Your Humble Servant  
Lady Margaret._

_Lady Margaret,_

_I see what you mean. I'll investigate ferther. You did trye to warn me of the dangers of this plan, it is not your fault I did not listen. However, he is a dangerous man to crosse, I must move carefully._

_HRH Marie de Guise_

Darnaway Castle, Scotland, 1552 

_To: His Majesty King Malcolm V of Scotland_

_Dear Malcolm..._

She crumpled the paper up. It wasn't the first letter she'd thought about sending him, yet she never completed one. Malcolm may be her king, but he was still a child. She could not, in good conscience, ask him to rescue her. 

“Isobel.”

“Yes, My Lord?”

She remained seated at her vanity, while he remained standing and blocking the door. She still felt that little twitch in her body every time he entered a room and spoke to her. Isobel remembered how much she'd hated the jokes his friends made at the engagement party. If Thomas had been a man to follow through on their suggestion, she would have been angry but she would have eventually forgiven him. She had been so innocent then, thinking that was the worst he might do to her, it was laughable now, how _offended_ she had been . That was before he'd come to believe she'd betrayed him. She learned he was an unforgiving man with a richer, much more sadistic imagination. 

By the time Queen Mary invited them to spend summer in the country with her, Isobel had learned his rules and a great deal more about what it took to break her. There were days when she burned with helpless anger and would have done anything to be free, and days when she chose simply not to exist. There were even days when he played at loving her, when he petted her gently, he was careful during sex, he bought her expensive presents, and the household staff didn't have to sneak food to her because he thought she was getting fat. It never did last long enough. 

“The queen has written to request our presence at court. My military advice and your service as Lady in waiting. What do you think of that?”

The Queen's Ladies always had to be presentable. He wouldn't be able to hit her in the face or otherwise render her unable to perform her duties while they lived at court. He could not cut off access to food or other people. From there, she might plan a better escape. 

“It is good that Queen Mary still values My Lord's contributions,” Isobel replied evenly. Still. She shouldn't have said 'still', it implied that his skills might not be valuable in the future, he liked to feel important-

“Isobel.”

“Yes, My Lord?”

“Give me that paper you're holding. Now.”

_Edinburgh, 1553_

Isobel sat out in the garden, enjoying the sunshine, idly perusing a Bible she'd found on a desk in the library. She looked down at a random passage and tried to make sense of it, moving her lips as she read. Life had improved since their return to court, Thomas was not kind to her but he no longer had the freedom to do whatever he wished. She was still lost and afraid, this relief couldn't last. 

“Lady Moray, Good Morning,” Reverend Knox said. He stopped in front of her, flashing a friendly smile. 

“Good Morning, Reverend. Are you well? ”

“I'm on my way to court to argue with your stepmother again,” he said. “I see you're reading the Scriptures. You might have heard I know a little something about that. I didn't know that was an interest of yours.”

She hid her trembling hands (they always trembled now) beneath the book. 

“Not really. I struggle with Latin, my schooling wasn't a priority while my parents fought a war. Yet, I thought I might find comfort. ” She'd been teaching herself, first in the palace library and then at Darnaway when Thomas was gone. But it was slow going and she was shy about it. “Can you help me with this passage?”

Knox sat near her on the bench, she tilted the book towards him and gave him a moment to read the paragraph. 

“This one? Christ meets a rich young ruler who asks what he must do to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. And Christ says to him, you must give up all your worldly goods and power.”

“But,” Isobel said, concentrating hard on the translation in her head, “he rejects the idea.”

“You're right. He sees it as too much of a risk, he doesn't want to give up his comfortable life, for what is he without money and status?”

“... _Poor_. And probably dead,” Isobel said. Knox chuckled, which surprised her. 

“Fair point,” Knox said. “But the thought is, that he would be trading worldly power for a life in the presence of Our Lord. Exchanging material success for a moral victory. ” 

“I don't think I know anyone who would choose that and mean it. I suppose I live among corrupt people, but power is the only way to survive in a cruel world. I do not know my opinion. Thank you for taking time to explain it in plain language, though. I don't know why everyone gets so angry about the issue. Princess Eleanor's English prayer book is a topic of much mockery and criticism at Queen Mary's dinner table. They talk as if it's a sign of the Apocalypse.”

“We're creating a new world, and it's only natural people are afraid. No one's fond of change, but change must happen. Have you heard of the Geneva Bible?”

“Is that like The Great Bible?” Isobel asked. She was referring to the large copy of the Scriptures in English which Henry VIII had ordered placed in every English church. Isobel had never seen one in person, but she had heard they were chained to a table. 

“Yes,” Knox said. “Only a portable edition, which anyone can buy and use. It's a more complete improvement on Tyndale's New Testament, with notes to aid lay persons in understanding it. I work with several Protestant communities who meet to study together. I know- you see it as heresy. But I want you to consider how much easier understanding the Scriptures is, when they've been translated by someone who wants you to know what they say.”

“I don't know anything about theology,” Isobel said. “Or why it all has to be so mysterious anyway. Everything feels very difficult lately and I would like for one thing not to be.”

“You're having problems? Pardon the intrusion but you do look...different from the last time I saw you. Does married life not agree with you?”

“Married life most assuredly does not agree with me,” Isobel admitted. He was a priest, she could tell him and he might even listen. She already suspected what he would say, because he was a priest, and a man, but he wouldn't tell anyone. At least, not her family, because they didn't want anything to do with him. “My husband and I don't get on well. He wasn't my first choice to begin with, but he's strict, and often angry with me.”

“Are you properly accepting of his rule? I won't interfere in an issue of family discipline.”

“I know I can be a brat,” Isobel said. “But I don't- I-I do everything he asks. Mostly. I'm not who he wanted me to be, and he's been punishing me ever since. In ways I can't speak of to you, when I am trying my best. It is not _discipline_ , it's _torture_.”

“You're saying he's not a good man, he has failed morally in a terrible way, destroying the marriage and leaving you vulnerable. When I saw you today, the look in your eyes, the tremor in your hands that you try to hide from everyone, the last time I saw that was during my time as a military chaplain.”

“The Earl is _no gentleman_ ,” Isobel muttered. Waking up every day and going on did feel like a secret battle, one she fought alone. 

“If you're a good woman, and I believe you are, but he's not a good man, perhaps-”he paused carefully, “perhaps God put you in this man's path to save his soul. We all have our roles to play. If you concentrate on being soft, gentle, kind and Godly, with prayer and Bible study, you can bring your lost husband back into the fold of God. He can be taught how to care for you properly, with the help of a good example.” 

What if Reverend Knox was right? If she worked hard to become the better person, she could provide a beacon for Thomas, and repair their relationship. Isobel wasn't entirely sure this would work, but Knox understood these things better than she did. She wouldn't ask Father Hamilton, he'd helped to get her into this mess, and why should she trust marital advice from someone who wasn't allowed to get married? 

“Will you teach me?”

“Lady Isobel, I would like that _very much_.”

A familiar face was in attendance at dinner that evening. Isobel flushed and kept her eyes glued to her plate. What was James Hepburn doing there? She'd heard he'd been welcomed back to Queen Mary's court, and was now called the 4th Earl of Bothwell but...how was she meant to react? 

She wouldn't look at him again. She would play it cold and _not_ think about the things they used to do together when they would sneak off or how he'd stomped on her dreams for a future together. 

“Have we all heard?” One lord spoke up from the other end of the dais. “Prince Edmund and Princess Eleanor have been arrested again in connection with another plot to overthrow their brother.” 

Edmund was alive? Isobel could not help feeling relieved for some reason, although she knew he might not live for long. She didn't dare show a reaction to the news. 

“So the Protestant trash is back in the Tower where it belongs,” Thomas said. “Let's hope King Henry won't take pity on them this time. This is what happens when you leave a threat alive. He should have smothered them both in their cradles.”

Queen Mary stood then. Everyone else rose as she exited the room. 

“I shall retire now. Lady Isobel, accompany me to my chambers.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

In the queen's bedchamber, Isobel automatically began to help her undress, the maid did most of it but that wasn't why Isobel was really there anyway. She waited for Queen Mary to broach whatever subject had become so important it needed this much privacy. 

“I'm sorry. Sometimes we forget, the Tudors are your family, my son's family.”

“I don't know how I feel about them,” Isobel said. “They're a threat to Malcolm's crown, they've killed people I love, yet t I don't like thinking about Henry locking his own brother and sister away. I've heard the Tower is luxurious for a prison, their cells will be like small apartments, but Eleanor is a _child_. Even if Henry doesn't kill her, she'll become a woman without ever seeing the outside world again. In a sense, I know how that feels. Surely there is a better solution.”

“You were always the one trying to find a third option, the compromise which keeps the peace. That's a rare gift, a talent which could take you far. ”

“Your Grace, I don't-” Isobel paused, the queen's earrings in her hand. 

“You like those? Keep them. I would send you to French Court for your safety, but I'd need a reason to prevent your husband from trying to follow. And...”

“And?” Isobel asked. 

“I need you here in Scotland. I'm sure you've noticed the increased responsibilities I've been giving you.”

“I did,” Isobel said. “I thought- I thought you were making excuses to keep us at court.”

“That, and I wanted to prepare you to take over for me as Regent.”

“ _Me_?” Isobel felt a barrage of conflicting emotions all at once and she balked at showing any of them to the queen. “I am not...”

“You _are_. Beyond being Malcolm's nearest adult relative fit to serve after me, you're smarter than you let on and smarter than you think you are. And with what you've lived through, braver and stronger than you or anyone else thinks you are too. You've always been good at figuring out how to get everyone what they want, you keep your temper and you know the value of diplomacy. Those are the qualities of leadership. Men expect a warrior with a broadsword and a kilt, but they don't know the battles you've already fought and won. I do. Good leadership comes in many guises.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. What of my husband though? He won't put up with this.” She wouldn't be able to rule with Thomas trying to drag her down. He'd destroy her before he let her have more power than him. 

“By the time it matters, I hope you'll be rid of him,” Queen Mary said. And she added gently, “That will be all, Isobel, you are dismissed.”

Lord Bothwell caught up with her in the corridor. 

“Lady Moray.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her into an open sitting room. “You will speak to me.”

“Unhand me, you swine!” Isobel complained, half heartedly trying to tug herself away. 

“You sold me out.” The 'you lying little bitch' was implied in his tone. “I went to prison for you!”

“For two months before Queen Mary released you and helped your parents clear your name.” Isobel folded her arms across her torso, eyes darting away from his gaze. 

He waved a paper in her face. 

“This is a copy of your statement, signed by witnesses. And I quote ' _James Hepburn took me into the forest when we had both been drinking too much wine. He asked me to touch him and I did. Then he laid me down and put his hand up my dress, and then he put himself inside me. I said I was not sure because I wanted to be pure for my husband but I was drunk on wine and he was stronger than me.'_ That's not what happened at all and you know it! Everyone thinks I took advantage of you.”

“I didn't want to do it,” Isobel argued. “They bullied me into it. My family wouldn't let me leave the room, I wasn't allowed to eat, or sleep, or bathe, they wouldn't even let me have a cup of water, and there was a priest in my face and-” 

“Do you realize what could have happened to me if my parents didn't have friends in high places?” Bothwell demanded. 

“I do.” If he'd gone to a real prison, and hadn't had anyone to get him out, the same thing which had been done to Isobel for almost five years. She knew she had wronged him, her anger had been a child's anger, she regretted it but there was nothing she could do to make up for it now. “I wanted to hurt you, and I wish now that I had ruined my marriage instead.” 

“I've spent so much time hating you and missing you with equal passion,” Bothwell said. He tenderly embraced her, and instead of pushing him away, she pressed her face in his shirt. He smelled like wood smoke and fresh leaves. “You were always so eager before, so impatient. Now, when I try to touch you, you tense as if you're expecting pain.” 

“I'm married now.” And sex had been nothing but painful so far. 

“But not happily.” 

“That doesn't matter,” Isobel whispered. She shivered at the touch of his hand on the small of her back. “My fidelity is the only defense I have, I need to know I'm innocent of adultery and always have been, or what's left for me?” 

“An identity not based on a mistake you made years ago, not based on what other people want to believe about you because your _mother_ made a mistake. You weren't put here to suffer for others,” Bothwell argued. He tipped her face up to touch his lips to hers. “What we can do together, that's what you were made for.” 

Bothwell pressed her to lay on her back on a chaise. His kisses were aggressive, even frightening, but she wanted this badly, she was starved for touch that didn't come from a place of hate. The forceful nature of it didn't give her time to second guess herself, so how could she blame herself for what happened after that? Or for how good it felt? 

A week later, a box containing a Geneva Bible was delivered from John Knox by secret messenger. He had tied a pink ribbon around the book, and written a letter to her on the cover page. 

_Lady Isobel_

_This is not the full version we're planning, but I wanted you to have a copy. I truly think it will occupy your time and ease some of your distress. I've marked out passages which give myself comfort, perhaps you will like them too._

_Rev. John Knox._

Isobel let it fall open to one of the marked pages.  
_Though I walk in the midst of trouble, yet wilt thou revive me: thou wilt stretch forth thine hand upon the wrath of mine enemies, and thy right hand shall save me._

Oh...

_Edinburgh, Scotland, 1555_

“King Henry has murdered hundreds of our people. _Cranmer was put to death_ , if an archbishop isn't safe, are any of us?” Emily was small, blonde, _very_ young, and John Knox's fiancee. She was extremely shy, he'd explained, and new to a high profile life. He'd asked Lady Argyll and Isobel to take her shopping in town and generally mentor her for a life adjacent to court. The three women strolled arm in arm down a quiet street just beyond the market. They had spent a pleasant afternoon having Emily fitted for modest but more sophisticated new dresses and pointing out the best shops for housewares. 

“He didn't have the backing of Rome,” Lady Argyll said. “his position became meaningless with a Catholic on the throne. Protestants depend now on the goodwill of their kings, and what happens in England affects us. So we must have Protestants in power in order to protect all of our communities. We need a Protestant on the throne in both countries.” 

“We must pray hard for our men to be victorious, whether in Parliament or, God forbid, on the battlefield,” Emily replied with firm conviction. Isobel and Lady Argyll exchanged glances behind her back.

“Well, yes,” Lady Argyll said. “They are the ones who wield swords and make the laws. But we have our own weapons. Especially now.” 

“What do you mean?” Emily breathed. Isobel flushed, tried to downplay her answer. She pretended to be interested in a market stall across the street selling brocade fabric. 

“Aylee...Lady Argyll, means that I am stepdaughter to the Queen Regent, daughter of James V and sister of King Malcolm,” Isobel said.

“Our man in the enemy camp is a woman,” Lady Argyll said. “Ooh, new hats. Emily, you need to try these on.”

“Excuse me, I must visit the herbalist. I'll be quick about it.” Isobel ducked inside the small, dark shop, nodding politely to the proprietor. She drifted past his counter, casually sliding a handful of coins across the surface in exchange for an equally discreet handover of a little glass vial. 

“Your special order from France, Miss.” 

“Thank you, Good Sir.” Isobel bobbed her head towards him before returning to her friend outside. 

“Not feeling well?” Lady Argyll asked. 

“The queen is complaining of pain, she says this the only herb which works and I'm the only person she trusts to fetch it.”

“Queen Mary relies on you quite heavily these days. Will she name you the next Regent?”

“I don't know,” Isobel lied. “My husband would try to stop it. And what of _your_ men? Would the Lords of the Congregation accept another woman ruling the country?” 

“They might if she was a strong Protestant sympathizer, which they know you are, you've been secretly attending our meetings for two years,” Lady Argyll said. “You're so close, Isobel. You've all but done it, why are you holding off on converting?”

“It would be one of the riskiest choices I've ever made. I can't do it lightly. I'll know when the time is right.” Isobel climbed in the waiting carriage after her friend. “The truth is, Aylee, this new faith fits my pragmatic soul. It's my perfect pair of shoes, while Catholicism was always the pair which never quite fit me well... If the shoes were made by a cobbler who ruined my life. I've felt dirty, defective, wrong, and I see now that it doesn't have to be that way. I can approach God without barriers or-or shame. I can _question and argue_ , and read for myself in a language I _speak_ , to choose according to my own reason and understanding.” 

And if she didn't feel like doing any of that, she didn't have to either. After a lifetime of having her choices made for her, she would soon be free to make her own. 

“It's a chance to start over, Isobel. And the world is changing, our cause _needs you_ , don't be left on the wrong side of history.”

Isobel closed her fingers around the glass vial in her small purse. 

“I just need to do one thing first.”

“Driver? Driver, why have we stopped?” Lady Argyll leaned her head out the window to address him. 

“Apologies, My Lady, I have to turn the carriage around and take a different road. Some sort of fight's broken out ahead.”

“A fight? What about?” Lady Argyll demanded. 

“Looks to be a religious riot. You ladies should to close the curtains, you don't need to see.”

But they could certainly hear the shouting of Catholic slogans, the breaking glass and the crackling flames. 

“Lord _above_ ,” Emily whispered, saucer eyed. “If they see us,if they know who we are-”

“Don't be frightened,” Isobel said. “We're safe in here. You can stay with me at the castle until the road is clear.” 

Yes, the time had come to make a courageous move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more like one chapter split into two (again)
> 
> The complete [Geneva Bible](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geneva_Bible%20) wasn't published for another like two years, and this is from a [much later version](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+138&version=GNV) but what are timelines anyway. Knox probably had copies lying around already. 
> 
> The other passage Knox and Isobel discuss is the story of [The Rich Young Ruler](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+18:18-23&version=GNV)


	4. Chapter 4

“Lady Isobel.” Bothwell strode up as she was making her way down the corridor.

“Lord Bothwell.”

“Are you well?”

“Queen Mary has me sitting in on the Privy Council meetings,” Isobel said. “Handling a lot of her correspondence. I've actually stood in for her at meetings with trade delegations and ambassadors. I never thought that I could _do_ things, and yet I like government work. Feeling needed, it's nice.”

“I'm proud of you,” Bothwell said. He caressed her hand, smiling down at her. “You and your new confident glow. You _rouse me_. Can you slip away to the tavern to meet Daniel and Andrew with me tonight? I'm craving them and Andrew says he misses the lass with the beautiful c- the beautiful _curls_. ”

“Walk and talk faster, both of you.” Queen Mary swept past just as they were snickering like children. “I need to speak with you privately. And try not to be so indiscreet, for God's Sake, this a public hallway. ”

They took seats and looked at her expectantly once the door to her private study was closed and locked. 

“Do you still have the item I had my friend from France send over?” Queen Mary asked. 

“Yes, Your Grace.” The vial was hidden in the toe of a rarely worn shoe. 

“Good. Bothwell, I hope you're ready to play your part as well. We have to do this soon. If I can't help you out of your situation in time, I won't be able to help you at all, and I have already let this go on for too long.”

“What does Your Grace mean?” Isobel asked.

“I won't be here to help you forever. You _cannot_ become regent while chained to that man and his power over the crown.”

“And you have to become regent,” Bothwell said. “If you don't, and Queen Mary dies before your brother comes back, the door is wide open for anyone with a strong claim. King Henry, for example.”

“This plan will only work if we can keep my husband's power when he falls,” Isobel said. “I have an idea for how we can get his men on our side?”

“Isobel, what have I told you?” Queen Mary lectured. 

“Don't phrase statements in the form of a question?”

“Never come off as insecure about stating the facts. Be gentle, be polite, exercise diplomacy but _own_ your ideas and opinions.”

Isobel rode out of town at dusk, taking advantage of Thomas having fallen asleep after sex. Left unsatisfied as usual, Isobel wasn't remotely tired (she would fix that down at the tavern with her friends when Thomas went off on his hunting trip). She let her horse amble down the public path into a clearing, where a man just a little older than her and wearing the cloak of one of her husband's soldiers, waited on horseback. 

“Captain Duncan, Good Evening.”

“Lady Isobel.” He inclined his head. Duncan was a sly, ambitious man who had risen high and fast and wanted more. 

“I'm sorry for asking to meet you without my husband's knowledge. This must be secret, unfortunately, it's about Lord Moray. You may have...seen the change in his behavior in the last couple of years.” She frowned and sighed softly. 

“I have, My Lady,” Captain Duncan murmured. “For longer than that, to be honest.”

“If I can be blunt,” Isobel said, “My Lord Husband has gone mad. He's been mad for quite some time, it has now come to a point where I can't trust him to make sound decisions. Or with sharp objects. He won't take help or advice from his wife, all I can do is try to reduce the harm he's capable of by alerting his most trusted people to the problem.”

“I'm glad you did,” Captain Duncan said. “ We can't have a man of unstable mind leading us into battle. Are you advising me to double check any orders which he gives his soldiers?”

“In battle, yes, verify everything with someone you trust, ” Isobel said. “And in peace, run all other major decisions by me. I will pay you extra to do so, if you prefer. I know nothing of battles and weapons, I'll trust your counsel as I am not-”

“Mad,” Captain Duncan finished. “I'd follow a woman with your father's heart any day over a mad earl who has caused that woman any pain.”

“And Captain Duncan,” Isobel said earnestly, “the Queen Regent is about to make a proclamation which will not only raise the station of myself and my husband, but yours as well if you prove your loyalty.”

“My Lady Moray, I swear it.” He kissed her gloved hand, which she noticed shook less often lately. 

“I thank you, sir. Now I must return to the castle before I'm missed. He goes looking for me, and loses his way in the passages, when he is found he rants about ghosts. I'm sorry,” she glanced sadly off into the trees, “ I don't mean to unburden on you.”

“It's no trouble, Lady Isobel,” he said with very sincere concern. 

“Good Night, Captain. Write to me if you have news.”

“This is ridiculous,” Thomas said, a month later over dinner in their private chambers. “It's the most moronic decision Queen Mary has ever made and I won't stand for it. My wife, _Regent of Scotland_? What would your father say to that?”

Isobel wisely kept her opinion to herself. First, if her father was alive, they wouldn't be discussing regents, and second, her father would never have let Thomas marry her. She liked to think Father would have eventually thrown him out a window. Isobel picked at her small piece of chicken and one bread roll, glancing wistfully at the rest of the food, which he was keeping at his end of the table. It was important that tonight, they weren't attended by any servants, not that she would have dared to ask for more food anyway. 

“You have no business involving yourself in politics. You have no business speaking or making decisions on any topic. You're decorative.”

"Then My Lord will advise me and I will obey his instructions," Isobel said. She eyed his full cup of wine as he lifted it to his mouth and took a satisfied gulp. According to the instructions, he didn't need to drink all of it but she wanted a guarantee that this would work, and the timing needed to be precise. 

“Do you know what I discovered today, Isobel?”

“No, My Lord.” It would not be anything good, she knew that. Thomas produced a folded piece of paper. 

“One of the new maids was cleaning your room at home and she found _this_ wedged in your vanity drawer.”

No. She didn't remember what it was, but it would be something private and forbidden, something to provoke him. And everything provoked him.

“Shall I read it aloud?

_To: King Henry IX of England_

_Your Highness,_

_You have not met me, but I am the sister of King Malcolm of Scotland, your cousin on your father's syde. I am writing to you as a last ressorte. My husband, the Earl of Moray imprisons me in our home and subjecks me to repeated vile tourtures and starvaytions when I have done nothing. The Queen Regent thinks he will move against her if she braykes the marrige. My mother has no power there, my brother is a childe and in France. I knowe our countries hafe a strayned relaytionshippe but I hope family ties will balance that out, as you are a Gracious King. I wish to escape to England, and live there under your protection as I fear now for my very lyfe._

_Sincerely,  
Lady Isobel Stewart, 1st Countess of Moray_

“I never sent it!” Isobel protested, eyeing the door, which was too far to edge towards without getting caught. She already knew, from past experience, she couldn't outrun him. “And it was when we were first married. I was not yet used to our life- I didn't understand you-”

“And it was when you were a Catholic, and thought that would also sway him,” Thomas said. He tossed Isobel's Bible on the table with a thump. She cringed. “My wife is not only a traitor, who was probably planning to whore herself out to a foreign king the way she whored herself to Lord Bothwell, she's a heretic. In so deep with the Protestants that John Knox himself leaves handwritten notes of encouragement on the front page of her so called Bible. Where is your copy of the English prayerbook? I know you have one.”

“I don't, I swear!” She did have one, but he would never find it. Thomas threw the Bible in the fireplace. Isobel watched the precious gift from her friend turn black and crumble. 

“He was _helping me_ , I was learning how to be a better Christian so that I might find a path to repair our marriage. I thought if I was good, you would see a way to be good and love me! I haven't converted, I swear. If I had, why would I write that letter? King Henry has killed over 400 Protestants.”

“You were never willing to give me a chance,"Thomas snarled. "You are the one who denied and deceived me at every turn!”

“ You deluded yourself into thinking I'd fall adoringly at your feet without any effort on your part, when we have never had a real conversation, I could charitably describe you as bad in bed and you have viciously abused me at the first sign of imperfection! I _prayed_ not to conceive a child with you! You shouldn't be surprised I've had an affair, consulted with heretics and considered begging _**Henry Goddamn Tudor**_ to rescue me!” 

The slap was hard enough to knock her down. She heard Thomas unfastening his belt, whatever he planned, it would hurt. He grabbed a handful of Isobel's hair, dragging her to her knees. 

“Please, My Lord, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_ ,” Isobel whimpered. Her fear was genuine, but she smiled grimly at the sound of Thomas coughing above her. A small drop of blood fell to the floor.  
“I'm _sorry_ Queen Mary couldn't get me away from you, so we had to ask Catherine de Medici to send us a _poison for your wine_.”

He stumbled above her, choking on his own blood. While he was distracted and weakened, Isobel scrambled backward and hauled herself to her feet. 

“My mothers think the poison was meant to kill you. I couldn't rely on that, so it was just to make this fight less fair.”

She quickly opened the door for Bothwell. Thomas didn't have time to react to Bothwell's knife slicing into him, blood sprayed everywhere but it was all over in less than a minute. He was too shocked to cry out. Isobel watched the light leave his eyes as he twitched on the floor. It wasn't like in stories, it took time for his body to shut down and every bloody, gurgling second was as horrifying as it was satisfying.

“Go,” Bothwell said urgently. “I'll get rid of him.”

“When will I see you again?”

“I don't know,” Bothwell said. He kissed her forehead. “We shouldn't be seen together for awhile.” 

As Isobel galloped through the night, she concentrated on the instructions given to her by Queen Mary.

_“We've already had it put about that the two of you left for your estate earlier in the evening. No one will remember seeing you around court after that, if the queen says you weren't here, you weren't here. I want you to make it true, ride fast, show up at the closest inn or manor house, disheveled, blood spattered and hysterical. Tell everyone your party was attacked by brigands and the Earl was murdered in front of you, but through the Grace of God you hid and escaped. Bothwell will strip the body of everything valuable, and abandon it at a halfway point. A friend of his will take the items to London and sell them. We must all move quickly and there will be no room for mistakes.”_

On her fifth day of freedom, Isobel woke early, and put on her best black dress, the one with the brocade and the velvet trim. The Earl's body had been returned by the constables, she hadn't gone to see it. Isobel honestly felt nothing toward him in death. Maybe joy and relief. After all, she was his sole heir. In order to summon up the appearance of proper sadness, she would need to call back to Father's death. No, not Father. That was sacred. Her mother's husband, he had been as kind as any man could be expected to be when asked to parent another man's child, but he had not wanted her or loved her as much as his own children. She missed him without being overwhelmed by it. 

“My Lady,” her maid, Meg stammered. She gave a gentle tug at the corset.

“Hmm?”

“My Lady, we in the house, we saw what he did to you, and you dinnae deserve it. Pardon me for sayin' so.”

“Thank you,” Isobel whispered. “Some of you tried to help me, the ones who stole food for me, lied for me, warned me when he was coming, oiled my back, they will be rewarded when I've met with the Earl's accountants.”

“My Lady, shall I dress your hair?” Meg asked.

“Please. And attach this veil to that hair piece with the black metal flowers. I must look serious, but I won't be dowdy.”

“My Lady, you ought to come to the window. There's something you need to see.” Isobel rose, followed her to peer out. She opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony to get a better look. Seven, eight hundred men in battle dress on horseback stood arrayed below. Her husband's banners waved in the breeze above their heads, the sun glinted off their weapons. 

“They've come to escort their lord's body, and his widow, to the funeral. ” 

“But...” Isobel said, dazed, “why are they raising their swords and cheering for me?” 

She still hadn't mentally adjusted to the reality that any part of her plan had worked, let alone every single puzzle piece falling into place at the perfect moment. 

“My Lady, they're your men now. If you want them.”

Reverend Knox was waiting with the other mourners as the funeral party exited the village church. She didn't dare smile but she glanced at him from behind her black lace veil, and discreetly stepped to the side so he could approach her in a socially acceptable way. He touched her arm gently.

“I'm sorry for your loss, My Lady.”

“Thank you,” Isobel murmured.

“Quite an impressive turnout. The Earl was popular.”

“They didn't know him,” Isobel said. “Half these people are here to make themselves look important, to curry favor with me or some other noble. I think some of them are hoping for free food and wine. I don't blame any of them.”

“My Lady is generous and kind,” Knox said. “Have you thought about what you'll do next? It will sound counter intuitive but I don't advise remarrying any time soon. Especially-”

“When my reputation for infidelity is so widely known?” Isobel finished for him. “I only became careless in the last few months, when _my heart could bear it no more_. Yet the timing will look too suspicious.”

“Scotland's ruler needs a spotless reputation...when she is a _she_. One mistake and you'll tumble and take this country with you. ”

“I _know_.”

“You're free of your husband,” he said. “You have all his money and estates, including a private army at your disposal, and you are Acting Regent of Scotland. God has blessed you, Lady Isobel. But, _quid pro quo_.”

“What?” Was he trying to claim all the credit for her effort, via God? The work had all been Isobel, with parts played by Queen Mary, Bothwell, and a couple of their friends. Although she truly wanted to believe God had played a part in her deliverance, and her new faith, and Knox's friendship, had been a great source of comfort and courage, Knox's marital advice had not exactly been _helpful_ in the end. He must have done something to ensure the vote at the Privy Council had gone in her favor. That's what he really meant. Isobel began to wonder how powerful Knox truly was. There must be more highly placed Protestants in Scotland than even she knew of, and he controlled them. It was an uncomfortable realization.

“It means, we help you, you help us. Remember that.” He melted back into the crowd.

Queen Mary kissed both her cheeks stiffly. 

“My condolences, dear Lady Moray,” the queen said with enough volume to be heard by others nearby. “I know what it's like to lose a beloved husband.”

“Thank you, My Queen,” Isobel said, bobbing her head and dipping into a little half curtsy respectfully. "Is my mother coming?" 

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh." It hurt, she was getting used to it, though.

“Why were you speaking to Reverend Knox?” Queen Mary hissed. “He's a bitter, interfering, dangerous man, Isobel.”

“Because...Your Grace, I must speak with you privately, I have something to say which I'm afraid will make you angry.” 

“Certainly.” 

Isobel led her to a small, empty side chapel. They sat side by side in a wooden pew in the cool semi darkness. 

“On the night he died, my husband burnt my Bible in the fireplace.”

“My God, why?” Queen Mary gasped. “Had he gone mad as well? Why would he do such a thing?”

“Because, um, it was a Geneva Bible. I don't know how long he knew, he died before he could punish me for it. This funeral mass was the last time I'll be able to participate in the Catholic sacraments,” Isobel said. She let out a heavy breath. “I'm a Protestant.” 

Isobel wrung her hands together, staring at the ground and waiting for the judgment to come down. The last thing she wanted was to be rejected by the queen the way she believed she'd been rejected by her mother, who barely spoke to her now. Isobel was glad her face was partially hidden by the veil. Her eyes watered now more than they had during the funeral mass. 

“Well, have you tried _not_ being a Protestant?” Queen Mary asked flatly. 

“You think that's how it works, because you don't take this seriously. This _means something_ to me. I'm going to be baptized in the spring. It's more symbolic and it's long enough after this to put to rest any questions about timing.”

“And you wanted to wait until I formally declared you the new Acting Regent.” Queen Mary sighed. She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Which I have just done.”

“Yes,” Isobel admitted. 

“People talk about the rivalry between fathers and sons, never about the often inevitable battle between mothers and daughters. I must admit, I didn't expect such a bold and decisive move so soon. I thought you'd spend a bit more time hiding in my shadow first. Am I expected to surrender gracefully now?”

“I'm not here to take anything from you,” Isobel said. “ I'll need your help to rule, and I'll wait until you decide to hand me that chain of office, there is so much left I don't know how to do. I am not your rival and Catholics aren't my enemy. I don't want to fight with anyone over religion but I won't recant, either.”

“And I won't ask you to,” Queen Mary replied. “You're a grown woman who can make her own decisions. Scotland _will_ be Catholic for as long as I can hold the line, however, you're young, you saw the change in the wind before I did. I don't fault you for saving your own skin, doing the politically expedient thing. Because if I die before the king returns, I know how strong the chance is that your side will win.”

“I'll be sad to see your era pass. The world is moving on, and yes, I intend to be _politically expedient_ and move on with it. I believe in the Protestant cause, yet I'm also fond of my head, I'd like to keep it. I'm sorry that I think your side has already lost.”

“Don't get overconfident, _petite madam_ ,” Queen Mary said coolly. “Your very Catholic brother is still the wildcard in this game. He will come back and he will want his throne.”

When, or if, he ever returned, no one could guess what sort of a king he'd be. Or, what sort of a _person_. In the last few years, Isobel had only been able to talk to Malcolm through his mother. 

“If I can sit down with him and explain, get him in a room with the Lords of the Congregation and Reverend Knox, I can make him understand the situation.”

Queen Mary grasped both Isobel's hands in her own. 

“Isobel, your friends are using you. You have power now and they want it.”

“When have I _ever_ been wanted for myself?” Isobel asked. Her father, who never regretted her despite her femaleness and her illegitimacy. Her mother, for a time, until Isobel had failed her. “Make no mistake, I will use them as well. That's politics, isn't it? _Quid pro quo_.”

Darnaway Castle, Scotland, 1556

Isobel knelt on the stones of the chapel on her estate, gazing up toward the light streaming in from the new windows. She folded her hands in front of her on her lap as she listened to Reverend Knox speak the words of the ceremony. She let her eyes drift closed when he began to pour the lukewarm water gently over her head, and he spoke the passage she had chosen to mark the birth of her new self and the cleansing of the stains on her soul. 

__  
"I love the Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my prayers.  
For he hath inclined his ear unto me, when I did call upon him in my days.  
When the snares of death compassed me, and the griefs of the grave caught me:  
When I found trouble and sorrow.  
Then I called upon the Name of the Lord, saying, I beseech thee, O Lord, deliver my soul.  
The Lord is merciful and righteous, and our God is full of compassion.  
The Lord preserveth the simple: I was in misery, and he saved me.  
Return unto thy rest, O my soul: for the Lord hath been beneficial unto thee,  
Because thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling.  
I shall walk before the Lord in the land of the living."  


When Isobel rose after the prayer, Emily and Lady Argyll and her other half sister, Lady Douglas, were the first to hug and kiss her. 

“Come, sister!” They pulled her by the hands out the door into the sunshine, and they danced hand in hand and laughed under the trees, her wet hair flying and her white dress swirling about her legs. And for once, no one had the heart to tell her to act with a little more decorum. 

“ _The Lord preserveth the simple_? I still can't believe she chose that passage herself. Dimwitted and promiscuous though she may be,” Lord Maitland said as the men watched her dance, “she is absolutely enchanting.”

“She is willing to redeem herself of her past behavior," Knox said. "I've helped her understand the requirements of her new role and she is quite sincere. Lady Isobel is our most valuable chess piece,she is the key if we want a peaceful transition of power.”

“Other than the good Reverend,” Lord Campbell said thoughtfully, “is there a man among us who wouldn't crawl a mile over broken glass if she said please? I think the people will also fall under her spell. ”

“Well,"Maitland said. "She is a widow now. Free to be courted by any one of us not already married. Free to be taken as a mistress by any of us who _are_.”

“I forbid it,” Knox said. It was instinct, involuntary, but the idea of any of these men in intimacy with Isobel deeply annoyed him. Perhaps it was because he'd known her for so many years, come to care for her in his own way, or because pairing her off with one of the Lords could result in divided loyalties. Either she would have to honor her husband above her responsibilities to the group (they'd accuse him of hypocrisy if he advised her not to) , or her husband would be so bewitched by her that, if she changed sides again, they would both go rogue. 

“You promised her your protection, we know, as she is like a daughter to you, but a woman so beautiful and spirited needs a man to _control_ her,” Ruthven muttered.

“You're right,” Knox said. “ _I_ am the man who controls her. And I plan to be the only one, man or woman, who does.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the passage](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+116&version=GNV) used at the baptism.


	5. Chapter 5

“Don't tell me you're turning into one of those tiresome women who thinks I'm a misogynist because I speak the truth about the Bible's views on your sex,” Knox complained after Isobel summoned him to walk the castle gardens with her after his Sunday sermon. 

“I...no...I don't think that, Reverend,” Isobel said quietly. She pulled a hawthorn blossom off a tree and twirled it in her fingers. She didn't want to be thought of as annoying. If that was what the Bible said, maybe she was the one in error. But that didn't mean it was politically wise for her to appear to be endorsing it. “But I don't necessarily agree with what you're saying either.”

“In what ways do you not agree?” Knox asked. 

“You've said anyone may speak on and interpret the Bible, your own wife instructs others- may I not also have thoughts?”

“Emily has devoted her life to studying the Scriptures and you have not. Theologians have spent centuries coming to conclusions about these issues, you need to learn how to trust their experience. As much as I've always wished you were more serious about your Bible study, you have to walk before you can run.”

“It's only that I think you should temper the rhetoric,” Isobel said, keeping a pleasant smile on her face as her patience frayed. “Do you really want to give the people a chance to question whether I'm fit to rule? They do, every time you tell them it's unnatural for women to hold so much power. May I remind you, you need to remain in my favor as much as I need your influence over the people. Still, Reverend, I don't like to quarrel with you about this or any other thing.” 

The sky darkened above them, water droplets landed on her nose. He looked like he wanted to reach over and wipe them off in an indulgent, fatherly way. She rubbed at her nose, smiling sheepishly at him. 

“Thank you, Isobel. You and I both believe in the right of each individual to worship according to their own opinions but, My Lady, there is still a core of truth in the Bible which does not change. We can't always pick and choose what we want that to be.” 

“ I will pray for more understanding. We ought to go inside, the weather is turning.”

Later, while drinking tea on the window seat and staring out beveled glass at the rain, she asked her stepmother what a “misogynist” was. Queen Mary glanced up from her correspondence. 

“A man who doesn't like or respect women.”

“So, most men?” Isobel asked.

“Oh, no,” Queen Mary said. “No, they are too lazy to question why they have it so much better than us or why the things they believe about us may be wrong. Most men underestimate women but in their own way, they want to love us. That's the key difference.”

While Isobel still wished she could have Father back, the older she got the more she had to admit, he hadn't expected much from her. His last gift, when she was eleven, had been a paintbox for her face, proudly telling everyone what a “heartbreaker our Izzie is becoming”. She'd been allowed to learn archery, yet no one had ever bought her a bow of her own, little weapons were for her brothers. Half of them had died, because that's how you prove your manhood, you go and get yourself killed. She'd turned lip paints and kohl into weapons instead. She had survived.

“Most men want to be decent human beings, they just need a bit of help. They make mistakes like all of us, they have misogynist thoughts or moments. But a true misogynist is committed to the idea that women are inferior creatures who exist to ruin everything. He's making a lifestyle choice. Unfortunately, some of them are quite good at tricking normal men, men will believe anyone who makes them feel secure in their manhood. It doesn't matter if his disgust is obvious or if he tells everyone how much he loves women, he carries it bone deep and he won't be changed.”

“Like my husband. ”

“Yes, I suppose,” Queen Mary said. “Once he learned you were a real person with just as much right to her own life as him, he flew into an insatiable rage.” 

“How do I tell if a man I _care about_ is a misogynist? He says he's not, I think he might be, although I don't want to hurt his feelings and I'm probably exaggerating and don't know what I'm talking about. Should I stay friends with him? ”

“Oh, Isobel, whoever he is, don't go down that path of thinking you might be his exception. Trust your gut. ”

“Do you think women can be misogynist?” Isobel asked. That had been weighing on her, was she guilty of the same world view by association with Knox?

“Hatred of women seeps into all things, small and obvious. Life can be so unkind to women that we turn to being unkind to each other and ourselves to survive. It's just the way the world works, unless one of us is brave enough to break the rules, reach out and protect each other. It's taken me most of my life to learn that, the true turning point was realizing how I let a man nearly destroy you over a simple human mistake. I didn't know the truth about him at first, that's no excuse, you were in my care and I didn't protect you.” 

“Mother's still angry at me.” 

“She's not, Isobel, she thinks you hate her,” Queen Mary said. “She's ashamed of how we led you like a little lamb to the slaughter. It was my fault, not hers, but she thinks you blame her.If you try writing to her again, she would love to hear from you.”

Isobel had never been angry with Lady Margaret. She had just wanted her mother. 

_French Court, coast of northern France, 1558._

“ _Bienvenue_ , Lady Moray. Did you have an easy journey from Scotland?” Malcolm took both her hands in his and kissed them like a Frenchman. He was almost a fully grown man now, deep voiced and five inches taller than her, dressed in French clothes so exquisite, Isobel felt like a peasant in her wool traveling dress. 

“Thank you, I did. I had never crossed the sea before, it was quite an experience. Our father's friend Lord Mackenzie and his men provided my escort. His explanations of the ship were so helpful.” She replied in French, Queen Mary, who had put her through intense hours of practice over the years (enabling them to share secrets and gossip in front of other people), had advised her that this would make it more clear she belonged on the world stage, as French was still the language of diplomacy. 

“I will thank him for taking such good care of you,” Malcolm said. He nodded gratefully to the Scottish lords standing a few feet behind Isobel. “Have you heard about the death of the English king?”

“Yes, it's terribly sad,” Isobel deadpanned. “I'm just crying over it. You need to move quickly before someone else swoops in. And who are these handsome boys?” Isobel asked of the young men standing beside her brother. 

“Gentlemen, my sister, Lady Moray. You must remember my Lords, Lord Fleming,” he nodded in the direction of a muscular, freckle faced boy with dark curls who wore a doublet of burgundy velvet, “And Lord Norwood.” Norwood was blond, attractive, high cheekboned and favored far too many rings and necklaces. The last time she'd seen either of them, they'd been small enough to pick up. “Where is Kenneth? He knows he's supposed to be here.”

“Distracted by his new duties for King Henri, I suspect,” Norwood said. “You need to remind him that Henri is not his king, you are.”

“What is he even doing for Henri?” Fleming asked. Isobel had a suspicion, if this Kenneth was as pretty as his friends. She knew they were young, were they really so indiscreet as to have this conversation in front of her? Wasn't there supposed to be a fourth boy? She felt it might be rude to ask after him. 

“Boys. Help your guests.” The order came from a stout middle aged woman with strawberry blonde curls who strode towards them across the Great Hall. A tall, sandy haired woman in her early twenties accompanied her, and a blonde teenage girl followed at a slower pace. The blonde girl was thin, and pale, and small, elfin, as if she should be flitting across the tops of flowers. Malcolm turned toward the girl like she was his sun and moon. They clasped hands as soon as they were near enough. Isobel curtsied deeply.

“ _Bienvenue,_ Lady Moray,” Queen Catherine said. 

“Your Majesty.” They had a conversation with their eyes, Catherine silently asking if the gift she sent had worked, Isobel silently communicating that it had worked beyond her wildest dreams and she was grateful. 

“This is Princess Francoise,” Malcolm said, gazing adoringly at the blonde. “My future queen, and her sister, Lady de Poiters. Ladies, I'd like you to meet my sister, Lady Moray.”

“It's lovely to finally meet you, Your Graces,” Isobel said. 

“Call me Francoise, we are to be sisters, after all.”

“Thank you, Francoise.”

“Come,” Malcolm said, “let's all go somewhere and talk. It's been so long. You wrote to tell me you were getting married, and then your chatty letters stopped. My mother would never explain why.”

“Let's not speak of it just now. I brought gifts!”

The wedding gifts were being piled in a private family sitting room, which also contained tables loaded with colorful sweets, including a tree made entirely out of individual balls of pastry, which Francoise said was called a “croquembouche”. They also had tea, and cushions to rest her tired feet on.

“What are these wee cakes? They're delicious,” Isobel marveled, biting into one of the pastel discs. 

“I love your accent,” Francoise giggled. “They are made with an almond paste. I'll get the recipe from our cooks to give to yours.”

“And I can include French pastries when I arrange the banquet for you upon your return to Scotland,” Isobel said.

“Oh, please don't, I want to learn about _your_ food. I need to learn how to be the queen of Scotland, not the princess of France.”She poured another round of tea for all of them.

“We'll both need to learn,” Malcolm said. “I haven't been home since I was six.”

“Well, I suppose that's what I'm here for,” said Isobel. "Put me to work any time."

“Speaking of putting you to work, if you want to be in the wedding, my ladies can find you a similar dress,” Francoise said.

“I would love that, Francoise but I can't participate in the ceremony, I'm a baptized Protestant.”

“Mother mentioned that, I didn't think you were serious about it,” Malcolm said. “I thought you were doing the politically expedient thing.”

“Because that and boys are my only reason for doing anything?” Isobel rolled her eyes. 

“Well, I don't know,” Malcolm replied. “I never took you for a follower of theological arguments, that's all.”

“I didn't follow them because I couldn't, because they were _in Latin_ ,” Isobel said. 

“Then learn Latin,”Malcolm said. “You're a highborn lady, you have the resources.”

“No, I di-” She took a deep, patient breath. “It's not that simple. Why do you think so many peasants and commoners are drawn to the new faith? They respond to men like Reverend Knox because he's one of them, he understands and addresses their concerns. We _are_ trying to raise literacy rates among the people and build more schools. And the nobles are following, they want _Scots_ to run Scotland.”

“ _I'm Scottish_ ,” he argued. 

“They don't want the Pope interfering when his own church is so corrupt. You have to show them you're not an agent of foreign powers. They fight back because they're afraid. They're persecuted and they don't feel like they're being heard.These people have become _my_ people, my friends. You weren't there when Henry IX was burning Protestants, and I reassured them that they would not have to fear the same thing from you.”

“And as their king, I _want_ to be tolerant, but I won't compromise my own values.”

“I'm not asking you to. I want us to work together, we could show the people that it's possible for the two sides to coexist.”

“Malcolm!” Lord Norwood ran in and gasped,“The Protestant Lords have laid siege to Edinburgh! They have your mother penned in. See, it's in this letter my father sent.” He shoved the open letter at Malcolm. 

“I spoke too damn soon. I didn't know about this, Malcolm, I swear, ” Isobel said quickly. She was as thrown by this as everyone else, the Lords had talked about it but she hadn't thought the discussions were serious, no firm plans had ever been made with her or in her presence. She certainly hadn't expected them to move so quickly on it. 

“They were waiting for you to leave the country,” Malcolm said. “They knew you'd try to stop them. They actually signed their names to a list and yours is on it, even though you were obviously not there. And I'm learning of this through someone else since my mother can't get word out.”

“They have obviously had secret meetings I wasn't invited to, not all the Lords are on the Privy Council after all, so meeting without me isn't illegal. Maybe they met somewhere it's inappropriate for an unmarried woman to be alone with a group of men. Which is almost everywhere.”

“Do you know how many soldiers my mother has?”

“I'm sorry, I don't, and they may be diminished since I left. We can recruit from the Scottish lords who are here for the wedding, and I have eight hundred men of my own I can call on, though.”

“I'm impressed,” Malcolm said. “No, I really am. But it says here, the Protestants have recruited English troops. It might not be enough, we don't know how many Englishmen are coming. They might be there already, since they don't need ships.”

“My father will give you soldiers,” Francoise said. “He must. He promised to aid your country. Let's ask him together tonight.”

“And who is this?” Henri Valois asked, seeing Isobel trailing into his strategy room behind her brother and his fiancee. Ugh. Really? Henri was handsome and well formed for a middle aged man, but he didn't even try to hide his leering. He was a king, he assumed she'd be thrilled. 

“My sister, Lady Isobel Stewart, 1st Countess of Moray and Acting Regent of Scotland.”

Isobel curtsied. King Henri nodded in response, smirked, eyes drifting to her cleavage, but did not rise from the map strewn table he sat behind. 

“Please to meet you, Your Ladyship. Malcolm sees so little of his family, how wonderful that you could make the journey. Although we were expecting Marie de Guise.”

“That's what we came to speak to you about,” Malcolm said. “My mother is under siege by Protestants in Edinburgh. We only just learned of this, and my sister is in need of more soldiers. She needs France to honor the alliance and provide reinforcements.”

Henri was undressing her with his eyes. Isobel was torn between finding it a bit sexy and shuddering in revulsion at the lack of respect. He did have a magnetism but it was the sort of energy that promised either the best fuck of your life, or the possibility of not leaving his bed alive. She didn't feel like taking that risk.

“If Lady Moray would have a private dinner with me tonight to discuss it. I'd like to show her other things France has to offer.”

“Your Grace,” Isobel started to say. 

“To explore the possibility of vigorously improving our international relations and come to a firm, fresh understanding. Do you enjoy oysters?”

He was showing her what a strong, dominating man he was by refusing to take no for an answer, or to give her time to refuse. All she saw was a man who wasn't taking her seriously as a head of state. 

“No? We'll do something simple, have you ever tried brie? You'll love it. All the French delicacies you're curious about, for one night with a Scottish one. If King Malcolm likes the terms.”

“Sir,” Malcolm interjected impatiently. “Are you trying to buy Lady Moray off me in exchange for troops to defend my homeland?” The king had been looking at Isobel like she was a piece of juicy meat. He'd noticed men did that, and it made him feel protective, but he especially didn't want to leave her alone with Henri, knowing that one woman had already died in the man's bed. 

“Oh, grow up and keep up, Malcolm. No need to be so crude. She's your subject, though, and your unmarried sister. Yours to do with as you see fit. Unless, of course, you're saving her for yourself.”

“I-excuse me- what?” Malcolm gasped. He would not _prostitute_ a member of his own family, not even to save Scotland. 

“I wouldn't blame you. My daughter is flat and thin as a crepe, fragile and weak, and you must have quite a lot of energy. You need a healthy girl for your appetite, Lady Moray was bred to be someone's mistress. She's only a _half_ sister, after all.”

“She's the Regent of Scotland. Would you speak to any other diplomat with such blatant disrespect? ” 

“None of them would look as pretty wearing nothing but lacy stockings in my bed.” King Henri stood up, revealing pale, bare legs, he wore nothing below his doublet, absolutely nothing, swinging free in the breeze. 

“And they're both still in the room!” Malcolm added loudly. Francoise wept mortified tears, Isobel's face was utterly blank, as if she was no longer mentally or emotionally present but Malcolm could sense an imminent explosion. Isobel spoke quietly, calmly. 

“Brother, His Majesty is clearly not well, this is inappropriate and I should leave.” She inclined her head politely, and swept out, the picture of dignity. 

“My sister has become very religious, is what I wanted to tell you before you offended her,” Malcolm said. “She adheres to the teachings of John Knox, he is her personal mentor. And you tried to barter with me for a night with her, in front of her, while you had no trousers on.”

“Oh dear,” King Henri murmured. “Did I forget them?”

“Yes, Father,” Francoise sniffled. “That's not the only point!” 

“Well, I didn't know you'd be introducing me to one of those tiresome Protestant prudes. I've never had a Scot and I'm very disappointed!” Henri whined. 

“As an apology for humiliating her, you will give my sister her soldiers.”

“Or what?”

“Or I won't marry him,” Francoise cried. She glared at her father, upper lip trembling. “You want England, don't you? You only get that if I'm Queen of Scotland. I won't be if there's no Catholic Scotland for King Malcolm to go back to.”

“Fine, she can have two hundred men and horses. I hope she's satisfied with that.” He smirked at his double entendre. “How do you know she won't betray you and use them for her own cause?”

“I trust Lady Moray's loyalty,” Malcolm insisted. Since she'd begun writing to him again, Isobel had made a point of informing Malcolm of all plots and whispers of plots against him. What good would it do a woman, and an illegitimate one at that, to try to steal his throne? 

“You think you're going to be a kinder, gentler, monarch,” Henri said. “Giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. Well, it won't last. You'll change, as we all do, when you learn what it really means to rule.”

“I will never be like you,” Malcolm sneered.

His sister's eyes were red rimmed when she opened her door to him. He'd had himself announced, and waited, not wanting to make things worse by barging in out of kingly entitlement or a mistaken belief that they were still close enough for such liberties. Her left hand trembled where it gripped the edge of the shawl she now wore over her dress. 

“Whatever he said, I wouldn't hurt you,” Malcolm murmured. 

“I know. I think.”

Malcolm's heart sank. Of course. It was part of being a woman, wasn't it, knowing that a man, especially a king, could force the issue if he really wanted to, God, he was bigger and stronger than her now. They'd been apart long enough that she didn't know what he was and wasn't capable of as a man. And he knew, from her body language, that it wasn't a theoretical fear to her, some man had given her a concrete reason to be suspicious. Perhaps it was the husband she didn't want to talk about. 

“Don't worry, I won't tell anyone the king of France has gone mad. Did you make the deal?”

“Two hundred men will set sail with you and the other Scottish lords the day after tomorrow. No private time with King Henri required.” 

“How did you get your father in law to comply?” Isobel asked. 

“Francoise threatened to call off the wedding. And I allowed him to think you're a good, wholesome and sheltered Scottish girl of conservative values who was so shocked by the debauchery of French Court that he needed to placate you with soldiers.”

“Whatever works.” She shrugged. 

“Are you? Wholesome and conservative?”

“The spirit is often willing but the flesh is very very weak,” Isobel said, bestowing a secretive smile on him. He smiled back.

“I see. I put extra guards on your door. They're to keep him out, not to keep you in. If you meet someone, be careful, please, there are other strange, dangerous things happening that I haven't had a chance to tell you about. No one should go anywhere alone, so let your friends know about that.”

“I promise,” Isobel said. “The other lords have gone out to seek a brothel. I'm assuming, they said it wasn't a place for ladies and I can't picture them touring a monastery at this hour. I have no energy to look for the equivalent tonight so you don't need to be concerned.”

“And- although he was out of line and wrong about any romantic feelings, we have to acknowledge the rules have changed. I must at least give the impression I have control over my family.” Malcolm hoped his sister understood what he was trying to say and that she wasn't angry at him, it wasn't as if he had a lot of practice with this. “When I return to Scotland, it would be best for your reputation if we started looking at marriage prospects for you.” 

“Goodnight, Malcolm.”

He wasn't sure what to read in her tone, she didn't sound inclined to obey. Walking back to his chambers, he found Francoise sitting halfway up the stairs, as if she had dejectedly given up climbing them and forgot to move. 

“Why are you not resting for the wedding?” Malcolm asked. He took a seat beside her. “Are you still upset about what your father said?”

“I can't sleep. I'm jealous of Lady Moray.” She whispered it, flushing red across her pale face. 

“But why?” Malcolm asked. Surely she couldn't actually believe what Henri had said about the two women and how Malcolm felt? Well, her father, who she used to worship, had mocked her body and its abilities in front of her fiance and a woman who he compared her unfavorably to, Malcolm couldn't blame her for that. 

“She is so very.” Francoise made a series of clumsy gestures indicating larger breasts, wider hips and she mumbled something embarrassed about a _derriere_. "She is a real woman. I look like a boy.”

“She's older than us. We haven't quite stopped growing yet, maybe you'll get your wish when we have children. Doesn't that happen? But darling, listen to me, your father said that because he's _morally bankrupt and insane_. I love you. I want you. Just as I always have, exactly the way you are.” He hefted Francoise into his lap, tenderly hugged her and kissed her cheek. She smiled into his shoulder. “I can't wait until I am officially allowed to make love to you as often as possible.”

“Your Grace.” A castle page approached. “The Scottish delegation would like to meet with you in your chambers tomorrow before the wedding.”

“Thank you.”

“Malcolm,” Francoise said softly, “go to bed now. We have a long day tomorrow and I don't intend to let you sleep tomorrow night.”

The Scottish delegation arrived in his chambers in the morning, all in full battle dress. The mood was hushed, almost as if the meeting were a secret. They shifted to the side to let Isobel carefully walk between them like the Red Sea parting for Miriam instead of Moses. A clan badge pinned a tartan sash across her dress. And they were his symbol,pattern and colors, not Douglas, or Erskine, or her late husband's. She carried a sword with an ornate hilt and scabbard, resting on a folded kilt. In this almost religious ritual, she was the high priestess. 

“My King, this belonged to our father and we've been saving this for you since the day King James died. Now that you're a man, it's only right you should have it.”

Isobel carefully placed the sword in his hands. She slowly knelt, bowing her head. Steel sang as the men behind her knelt as one, offering up their own swords.

“Your Majesty, we've been waiting a long time for you to rise,” Lord Mackenzie said. 

Before the Scottish delegation made their procession into the wedding chapel behind their king, his sister stopped him.

“I have one more thing to give you,” Isobel said. She unfurled a red velvet cloak with the English coat of arms on it. “If you want it.” He let her drape it around his shoulders and fasten it. “There. You're such a man now, you better start working on your beard.”

A surprised hush,then gasps, greeted Malcolm and his lords as they approached the altar. He knew they made a stunning display in their regalia,he had never been more proud of Scotland or felt more like a king, showing his command over his people and publicly declaring his intention to take the English throne. They moved to the side as he joined his three best friends at the altar, and everyone turned to gaze at Francoise, a petite angel in silver, clutching a bouquet of blue and purple flowers, gliding forward while her wedding song played. She was the most beautiful sight he'd ever witnessed, a whole future in her eyes.

Isobel would thankfully not attend the consummation. She needed to cut her stay short, she had to be on the boat by sunrise, so he took her aside during the reception to say goodbye.

"As you can probably tell, things are a bit chaotic here. We can't follow you to Scotland yet. I have an obligation to my wife's family to see that this other problem is, if not solved, at least tempered.”

“Oh. I guess I understand,” Isobel said. She did, Malcolm had spent more time as a member of the Valois household than he had as a Stewart and if France and Scotland were to remain allies, France had to have a stable government too. Mad kings were an unpredictable force of destruction, the British Isles couldn't afford a situation like that only a narrow body of water away. 

“But we'll join you as soon as we can.”

“Malcolm, please come with me-” she blurted out. 

“You have everything you need to save my mother. Including this. It's more for show, I hope the men can protect you and you never have to use it but I wasn't letting you go home without something.” He awkwardly handed her a white muslin package. Inside the cloth, she found a beautifully carved bow and matching quiver with arrows. He'd also included a leather jerkin with strategically placed light metal plating sewn into it. Isobel hugged him tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Come home soon, please. And do you have any trousers I can borrow?”

She changed on the boat, and plaited her hair in a braid, there was no time to waste once they landed. 

“Meg, Fergus, take the rest of our belongings home,” she ordered the two servants she'd brought to France with her. “Tell Captain Duncan to meet me with the company outside Edinburgh, and we'll go on together from there.”

“My Lady, where are you going?” Meg asked. 

“To rescue the queen from my friends.” Isobel swung herself on a horse, and galloped off in the direction of the capitol, the Catholic lords, their men, and the king's mercenaries keeping pace.

Her soldiers flanked the perimeter, the first wave rode into the camp and engaged in a clash of swords, while Isobel, Lord Mackenzie and her standard bearer cantered ahead through the chaos. The air was filled with smoke from gunpowder and dozens of fires. She wrinkled her nose at the smell, a combination of cooking meat, blood, horses and unwashed men. Tired looking men hurried to the doorways of their tents, hastily strapping on weapons. Their heads turned towards her as she passed, shocked and suspicious. 

“Lord Ruthven.” He was waiting as she got nearer to what passed for the command center.

“Lady Moray,you weren't supposed to be back for at least a week. And you brought reinforcements?”

“I did, just not for you. As your regent, I wish to address the camp, where is the best place?

"Up here on this slope, if you want to be seen. But there's no need, we have it well in-Oh, I see we may not after all. "

“Everyone's staring at me,” Isobel commented. 

“They're not used to seeing females in camp, let alone noblewomen with weapons,” Ruthven explained. He continued to trot along side her horse. 

“There must be some women. Who else cleans, cooks, and provides other...needed services? Although I'm sure you manage just fine without a woman.” She met his eyes pointedly. She knew from Bothwell's pillow talk that he and Ruthven frequented the same gatherings of men who had certain preferences. 

“Knox banned all the whores from camp.”

She let the silence play out. 

“Why are _you_ staring at me?”

__

__

“Oh,” Isobel said finally. “Pardon me, I was waiting for the insulting punchline about allowing me through.”

“We never meant any of that. It was just boys being boys.” 

“Perhaps you should try acting like men instead.” She rode up to the top of the hill and wheeled her horse around to face the soldiers. “All of you. Lay down your weapons and heed me now.”

Isobel notched an arrow on her bow, raised it and pulled back the bowstring. Her straightened posture pushed her cloak off her shoulders to reveal the armored jerkin underneath. She watched the men silently until they were looking in her direction. 

“A little girl with a bow is not going to stop us,” Lord Maitland said. 

“No, but a woman with a bow and an army of over a thousand men who has you surrounded might.” She raised her voice to carry over the crowd. “I may be one of you, a Protestant, but I am also your Lady Regent. I am not foreign, I'm Scottish, born and bred, just like all of you and you must know I intend to put the needs of Scotland first. And what Scotland does not need is another war amongst ourselves. Not when we have real enemies. King Malcolm sent me to protect our mother, for yes, we might not share blood or religious faction but she is _my mother too_ , and I will defend her if I have to. Disperse, go home to your wives and children before we all regret this and give me a chance to negotiate your grievances peacefully with the queen.”

“How can we trust you to do that? ” Lord Campbell asked. 

“My Lords are wary of me when they've been so forthcoming themselves? I will bring Reverend Knox in with me, and I want someone to find Archbishop Hamilton and tell him I'd also like to speak to him.”

“Nice thickening of the accent there, smart touch, next time, throw in some Gaelic,” Knox commented as the castle gate rose to let them through. 

“Thank you.”

“Are you turning on your friends, Lady Moray?”

“Are you my friends, when you planned this behind my back? You were skirting treason with this.”

“I didn't think female solidarity would thwart our plan,” Knox said. “Women can usually be counted on to turn on each other at the promise of power. You're not team players like men.”

“Surprise!” Isobel said. “You assumed I'd trade my family's welfare for power. What you don't understand about royals, is that it's one in the same. We may fight each other, but we don't let outsiders threaten our families. What would happen if people thought just anyone could raise a hand to us and not pay for it? I will rule Scotland and you will be by my side, but I intend to be remembered as someone who brought peace. And, I'm a Stewart first, and whatever unpleasant ends I have to go to, I will hold my family together.”

“I understand.” Knox gestured at the bow and quiver. “You were bluffing with that thing, weren't you?”

“Of course I was,” Isobel said. She had not been bluffing. “Do you think I even know how to use it?”

Bothwell came out to help her off the horse, hands gripping her waist. He embraced her, unaware Knox watched them suspiciously from the doorway of the keep.

“That was a stupid, dangerous stunt to pull,” Bothwell growled. “Don't ever do that again.”

“Don't tell me what to do, I'm not your wife and this is my job.”

“But this is what you have men for-” at her stubborn glare he quickly amended it to “this is what you have generals for. You're a diplomat, not a warrior.”

“When I was in France,” Isobel said, “ And I requested more support, for France to honor the alliance, Henri Valois tried to get me into bed in exchange. He didn't take me seriously as a leader, I was the object he wanted my brother to pay him with. If I want to be a successful regent, the people need to see me as strong and brave in a way they understand,like my father. I had to pull a dangerous stunt so they'd know I _am_ one. At least once, I had to prove I don't just have an army, _I have the fucking stones to lead it._ ”

“Say that again, that was adorable. Ow! Don't hit me. Though, I still want to pound you into the mattress for risking your life like that.”

“ _Later_ , I have to go mediate a childish argument between my stepmother and a bunch of priests.” 

Knox swung into step with her once she was through the door. 

“I've seen you embrace Bothwell before. I hope he's not your lover,” he said. 

“Lord Bothwell and I have known each other since we were bairns. Mother says we used to toddle around holding hands. He's one of my best friends. Yes, sometimes we're intimate. I know it's a terrible sin and I know he'll never marry me, I am no good at denying him what he wants.”

“Well, you must start,” Knox lectured. “We need to purge the court of Catholic influence and you, My Lady, must be unassailable in your chastity. Are you wearing _trousers_?”

“You couldn't expect me to ride sidesaddle in my new frock from Paris the whole way here,” Isobel replied. It would certainly have slowed her down, which would have benefited the Lords of the Congregation."Not that I _have_ a new frock from Paris, since I had no time to shop."

“Isobel, don't neglect your feminine qualities and your modesty in this quest for power.”

Queen Mary turned around from the window in the Council chamber, raising an expectant eyebrow. She waved a silver goblet in their direction. 

“You're late,” she snickered. “Sit down, have some wine. I believe you both know Archbishop Hamilton. ”

“We've met,” Isobel and Knox both muttered bitterly, but for two entirely different reasons. 

"And why are you laughing?" Isobel asked. "This isn't funny."

"Oh, it's hilarious," the queen replied. 

Isobel accepted a glass of wine from the queen and it was the last thing the four of them remembered of the evening. A signed peace agreement sat on the Council chamber table though, and by the time Isobel was awake and had bathed and put on a new dress, the Protestant army had begun to disperse. Isobel had vague memories of having a great deal of fun, and of being carried to bed by someone, they had tucked her in but left all her clothes on. Maybe it was Bothwell, who had then wandered off after realizing she was in no state to consent to sex. He never stayed too long after anyway, no matter how much she wanted him to. 

She also remembered sitting on someone's lap, being removed and told to “behave”. And Archbishop Hamilton had a lovely singing voice. 

“Even more wine?” Isobel snapped, barging into Queen Mary's rooms. The queen was drinking again, and she was unfazed at Isobel's disgust. 

“You of all people are going to start lecturing me on this?” Queen Mary asked. “I don't understand your problem.” 

“I raced back here,first on a boat, then on horseback, to save your life, the entire time, men have been reminding me how many of them see me as furniture, Knox wants me to ban Bothwell from court, and I have _hellish menstrual cramps_ so you're going to tell me the truth about what was in our wine last night.” Isobel thumped her hand down on the queen's desk for emphasis. 

“I thought it would help us all relax and negotiate better,” Queen Mary said. “What? It worked, didn't it?”

“It smells like medicine.”

“It is. It's an extremely powerful opiate. It's my own medicine.”

“You're ill?” Isobel frowned. 

“My doctor found a lump four years ago. As you know, these things are largely untreatable. It's quite a sizable tumor by now.”

“I'm sorry,” Isobel whispered. Oh God, this was terrible news. “Are you-are you in pain?”

“I need more and more medicine to get through each day,” Queen Mary said. “We're simply watching the clock run down, trying to keep the court and our enemies from finding out. ”

“Are you afraid?” Isobel sat across from her, reaching out to take her hands. They still looked too young for someone who was dying. 

“Not for myself. For you, for Malcolm. I'm leaving you such a mess.” The queen sighed. 

“No, no, you're not. Alright, you are, but it's not anyone's fault. This half wild country isn't easy to rule and things are changing so very fast.”

“I came here as a foreign bride,”Queen Mary said, “and I learned to love this place as if it were my home, just as I came to care for my husband's daughter as if she were my own. Not just because with my own son living so far away, you're all I have left of James. I didn't give birth to any girls I can pass things on to. I still have things I wanted to teach you, about politics, about how to survive and own yourself in a world that does not want you to be powerful.”

“You did, you have,” Isobel reassured her. “I'll be alright, I promise. If it's time for you to go, go and don't worry about what will become of me. I can take care of myself.” She threw her arms around the queen and buried her face in her shoulder. Queen Mary petted her hair. 

“Yes, I believe that, I really do, and you always could. Don't you cry for me, just get on with things, _ma petite fille._ ”

It happened suddenly late one night a few months later, while Isobel was reading in her chambers. That knock on her door, and the dreaded words “Lady Moray, you must come quickly,” and running through torchlit hallways to come upon Queen Mary, laying still and silent on the floor of her private study.

“My Lady, she's dead.” She'd simply collapsed while writing a letter, making almost no sound when she fell. Isobel watched numbly as the court physician and the servants moved around her stepmother's body. From this moment on, until the king returned, Isobel would be the ruler of Scotland. It was what she'd wanted, and yet she was alone and she didn't know what she was supposed to do next. Isobel had written to her mother, but it would take her at least three days to arrive. She walked out on the balcony and stood staring down into the lights of the town. It would be morning soon, hints of orange were already peeking over the horizon, and she badly needed sleep and a long, hard, cry. Anyone who could take over and be the adult for a few hours would be welcome. 

“You got here quickly,” she said without turning around.

“I hadn't actually left town yet,” Knox said. “You will need spiritual guidance at such a difficult time.” They stood shoulder to shoulder. She hugged her robe more tightly around herself. He acted like he hadn't noticed she was in her nightclothes, and she was thankful for that, most men would stare and stumble over their words. 

“It's a lot to take in, being a queen but not really.”

“Isobel, do you really want the king returning now? Do you really want him to come back and take all of this away? He'll give you away to a husband, he'll take your Council seat, he'll send me away and return this country to Catholicism. He's too young, he doesn't know this country, his reign could be an utter disaster.”

“I don't know,” she admitted. “What am I supposed to do? I want him to come home badly and yet that's the last thing I wish for. But he will return and I cannot stop him.”

“You could, though,” Knox said gently. He touched her forearm in a solicitous gesture. “Such things can be arranged.”

“You go too far, Reverend. Watch yourself.” Isobel shook his hand off and stepped two feet away. “I'm sorry. I need sleep. But, please don't come to me with such a suggestion again. I've already told you how I feel about that.”

After he had gone, she looked down at the courtyard, so many feet below, and considered how far it was to fall. 

_Scottish Coastline, Winter, 1559_

Malcolm gagged and spat out hacking coughs as he tried to dispel the seawater from his lungs. His hands scrabbled for purchase in the wet sand. 

“Mal, we need to move. _Now_ ,” Bash hissed. The sound of men calling to each other in rough, nearly unintelligible Scottish accents reached Malcolm's water clogged ears. They were taking the cargo, and cutting the throats of the survivors, all too injured and dazed to fight back or scream. “And stay down.” 

They crawled forward through the brush until they reached the safety of a heavily forested hillside. Malcolm pressed back against a boulder and tried to remember how to breathe. His sword, Father's sword was gone, he held nothing but a broken scabbard. 

“I can't see my sister, or Lachlan, I don't think they're still on the beach,” Bash said. 

“Frannie!”

Bash clapped a hand over his mouth. 

“Shut up, do you _want_ to die?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fralcolm's wedding music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRvsY5fSJcM) 
> 
> Because the two actors who played James had such different accents, I'm imaging that Isobel's is somewhere in the middle. She's tried to train herself out of having one (being a bit of a social climber anyway) and to another Scot, they'd agree her accent is almost nonexistent. But to a foreigner, she totally has an adorable Scootish accent.


End file.
